I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings Novels & Stories

'Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go. One of the greatest tragedies in life is to lose your own sense of self and accept the version of you that is expected by everyone else.' 🌹🌹 The Truth and Leaving (Part 1) 🌹🌹 Vala knocks off the chair she was sitting on as the image finally cleared from her head, she manages to get hold of herself before she falls, keeping the empty cup on the table.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night Take these broken wings and learn to fly All your life You were only waiting for this moment to arise Adapted from Boss Baby(The Beatles) Black bird Brianna's POV I know what it is they say about me, I know about the stares, the words without meaning. I know about the race for superiority complex, the darkness that consumes. Daily, it's a struggle, to be better, to be stronger. Once, they hurt me. Once, they broke my spirit, quenched the fire in my soul. Till one thought ravaged my mind like a wild beast on the prowl;

From the moment I married into the Blackwood family, my life could never return to its original state. I had thought the Blackwood family was a cage and I was a caged bird, believing that breaking free from the cage would mean freedom. Now, I realized I had never had the right to choose. I was just a canary moving from one cage to another, with no escape, forever trapped.

Do not protest the Lords. We are caged with wings intact. We do not fly to a yet different land. Caged with wings intact, I have seen many men with no objection towards trends, just complaints towards self. Why? Ask why? For to cage with wings is a tact that bad in time has revealed. Why cage my wings? Let me fly again with speed. Up high, up high, to my different land.

I finished the last stroke of my sketch and when I looked up, I looked right into Lilian's gaze as she leaned against the doorframe. She was holding two cups of coffee, squinting at my sketch behind those black-rimmed glasses. "The wings on the final draft of 'Caged' have three more fractures than the first version." My fingers froze. On the page, the bird's shattered feathers still reached stubbornly upward, exactly like my own heart the night I huddled in the supply room drawing this series. I drank the coffee, its bitter warmth spreading across my tongue. "Fractures are the price of breaking free from the cage, and the cracks let the light in."

I crept into the woods on tiptoe one wonderful night, when the captive birds sang for their liberation. Their cries sounded like a dejected lament about self-satisfaction and the cage they’d never called home. The gypsy wind rocked the trees, and I undoubtedly took the step to provide them with their desired salvation, the ability to breathe and fly freely. They took off, finally returning home. Then I returned to my own cage, which was less filthy but still chained..

"Did you forget we're divorced? Your wife is Winona now. When you accused me and got me sent to jail, did you think of me as your wife?" Hank turned pale and could not look me in the eye, feeling guilty. "I'm just a criminal that everyone despises. I survived three years in jail by thinking of you all. If not for that, I would have ended my life. But I never imagined that all my hardships were a gift from you. Seeing how loyal and tireless I was toward you, it must've seemed really funny, right?" Hank shook from head to toe, while Samuel could not stop crying. However, I did not feel sorry for them at all. They brought that on themselves.

She reeked of fear like others might wear perfume, that sharp acrid scent that came from someone who lived in constant anticipation of pain. She smelled of helplessness, of resignation, of a spirit that had been broken so thoroughly it no longer remembered what wholeness felt like. She was like a caged bird that had been born in captivity—wings clipped before it ever knew the sky existed, voice silenced by handlers who preferred quiet compliance to natural song. She had no scent worth claiming, no presence that should command attention from someone of my status.

I guessed that either the room was soundproof or I was in some remote place. I looked down at the heavy black shackles wrapped around my feet. "They're heavy." Realizing I was completely imprisoned, I thought I might die. The faceless man who had kidnapped me had, in my mind, transformed into a cruel murderer. The cruel murderer became a terrifying organ trafficker, and the organ trafficker became a grotesque cannibal who devoured people. That image changed dozens of times before the locked door finally creaked open, and a black silhouette entered. The moment he stepped in, the world twisted into black and white. It warped. Sparks crackled around his face, distorting the space.

I finally understood why I hadn't been getting any better. Feeling crushed, I borrowed a phone from the nurse and called my racing coach. After the call connected, hearing that familiar voice made tears stream down my face. "Mr. Hudson, I'm a cripple now. I'll never be able to race again." My coach, Ross Hudson, comforted me. "It's okay. What is valuable will always be recognized. You can still put what you have left to good use, like me." His words reignited my will to live. I said firmly, "Wait for me, Mr. Hudson. Once I recover, I'll go see you."