The caged bird is alone, treated as inferior.
Hate fills him, anger burns him, sadness drowns him.
It's too much, all of it is too much, blending together, killing him softly.
Yet he clings to it, holds it closer to himself.
And he sings. It's broken, off-key, and the tune is wrong, filled to bursting with hate, anger, sadness, love, hopelessness, fear. Everything that fills him, burns him, drowns him, kills him.
It makes him feel superior, loosens the bindings roped around him. Because they're there, though nobody else cares, nobody else sees. They're always there. Burning, squeezing, binding, choking, closer and closer.
He sings, and it's broken, off-key, and the tune is wrong, so, so wrong. It's a song of fate, of destiny, of despair, and a single path. The song is full to bursting with all the ropes cannot contain.
He does not hope to get away, does not hope to be free of his bindings.
But still, he sings, and that is a hope all its own.
It's his hope.