can i grow?

growing wings;
yet unable to fly.
words tend to speak up;
and yet they're being closed up.

will i ever fly away?
away from this filthy world?
or would that be too hopeful?
too naive, perhaps?

i kept asking, "will this ever work?"
but the questions kept coming;
coming endlessly and effortlessly,
even if i knew the answer.

the answer that i was never ready for,
the answer that i secretly despise;
despite knowing that the truth,
a truth that hurts more than death could possibly be.