Do you know
how butterflies come to life?
It’s more frightening
than you might think.

Born crawling
a caterpillar,
close to the ground
naïve to the sky
simply existing,
tasting the world
leaf by leaf.

And then
it begins.
A hush inside the body,
a quiet undoing.
Behaviors shift,
instincts sharpen,
the soul sketches its wings in secret.
The old self unravels.

Did you know
that little caterpillar
melts into goo?
Not a creature in waiting
just formless, floating cells.
And from that
a butterfly emerges,
grown entirely
from what was already there.

I’ve been stuck in that goo
the nowhere between
trauma and metamorphosis,
neither alive nor lost,
just suspended.

But this summer
brought tears as ink,
and from the scribbled ache
came liberating wings
fragile but certain,
drawn from silence.

I've started flying.
But I still glance down
when I shouldn’t
afraid that my pride and joy
will be mistaken for arrogance.
Yet I’m proud
proud that I can love again.
Proud that flying
feels so familiar.

I like to land
booping noses of dogs
showing up beside strangers
on quiet benches.
To hear their voices
for the very first time
to sense the tremble
of their own becoming.
And when I look,
I see it:
a shimmer in their stillness,
a whisper in their pause.
The butterfly
still hidden in its goo.

And I hope
they’ll pass it on
this softness,
this seeing.

That ripple we call
the butterfly effect

Poverty, all around.
The poor squeezed dry
by every system,
every suit,
every layer of government.

I’ve decided to leave,
to live light,
to give away what I no longer carry.
Not to make a point,
just to move.

No one told me how.
No school wrote back.
No agency replied.
No office opened the door.
I asked. I waited. I knocked.
Silence.

So now,
I give away for free
what they would charge rent to store,
tax to sell,
or fine me for leaving behind.

Not out of wealth,
but because generosity
feels like defiance
in a world this rigid.

They won’t tell me where to go
just how to stay in place.
I only heard rules as a reply
No humanity in their solutions

But I’m not waiting anymore

Today,
I remembered something
I hadn’t thought of in fifteen years.
I can picture myself,
lying in bed,
staring out the window
hours past bedtime
a kid, frightened,
willing to make a deal with the devil.

Exchanging the liberty I grew up in
for a mirage of security,
for stories I told myself.
Trading attention, once abundant,
for crushing invisibility
like a child in a play
with no parents in the crowd.

Bartering for eternal solitude
when connection was all I ever craved.

I remember
giving away everything I was meant to be
for a life that made no difference.

And it’s almost cruel,
waking up now
knowing I chose this path myself.
It would be easier
to be the victim.

A thought hidden
in a buried drawer,
unearthed
after fifteen years of digging.

I think I’m alive again.

Driving to work felt quite boujee.
Just two days of work and then I'm free.
Traffic sounding like a symphony,
Your words turned routine into poetry.

Across the digital divide we meet,
Strangers connected by rhythm and beat.
In this virtual space, our souls converse,
Bound by the magic of metered verse.

Imagining a schoolbus, dogs galore,
A whimsical scene that makes the heart soar.
Like your poem, it brings a smile, a laugh,
A reminder that joy is the true path.

I say to you, with gratitude deep,
For the solace your words allow me to keep.
In poetry we trust, in verses we blend,
Stranger no more, but a poetic friend.

I used to look up to success.
Glossy and distant,
like yachts pulling into sunlit harbors.
While my brothers and I posed,
thinking cool was something you wore.
A picture snapped becomes a prophecy
one we’re sold before we understand
we're being trained to consume.

We watched the boats drift in
like kings returning from invisible wars.
And my brother,
bold, naïve, beautiful,
pointed and said,
“I’ll have one of those.”
When asked how he’d pay,
he simply explained:
“I’ll get it from that wall, just like you do.”

God, the way children believe -
no fear in their hunger,
no shame in their dreams.

Maybe I’m just older now,
my lenses fogged from wear.
But all I see is people
wrapped in things
not selves, not stories,
but trinkets, masks, trophies.
Like they forgot that real wealth
was once built on time,
on tending soil,
on tears held back
while saying goodbye.

Maybe I’m not better.
Just tired of pretending.

Fifteen years I spent hiding,
living so cautiously
I might as well
not have lived at all.

I thought if I became invisible enough,
it wouldn’t hurt when no one looked.
But now I see it:

No one's looking.
Not really.
They’re caught in the hum -
faces lit by screens,
minds dragged along
by headlines, algorithms,
urgencies that mean nothing
when the world goes quiet.

And I don’t want to be them.
I never was.

So what was I hiding from?
Not them.

Maybe just from the part of me
that believed I had to earn belonging,
to twist myself into shapes
too small to hold a soul.

I always tell myself I'm a people-pleaser,
a labrador in a crowd,
always wagging, always watching.
But maybe I just wanted connection.
Maybe I was trying to make sure
everyone on the bus had a seat.

And maybe
that’s not so bad.

I no longer look up to success.
I look for faces in the street
at how someone treats the waiter,
the ******* crying on the curb,
the man with cardboard for shoes.

We are all human.
All breakable.
All still learning
how to love
without masks.

And I want to shout it,
before greed drowns our voices,
before we forget
how to hold one another
without asking what they own.

Adults in disguise,
once gods to their children’s eyes,
now lost, just like us

Mistaken for brothers, and maybe that's true
Before our departure, I’ve some things to say:
Don't die with your music still inside you.

From boys to men, together we grew,
Nostalgic memories of how we’d play.
Mistaken for brothers, and maybe that's true.

Twenty-five years, each version brand new.
I’m proud of how you’ve carved your way.
Don't die with your music still inside you.

You stayed close when I switched my crew,
Loving a man we once called gay.
Mistaken for brothers, and maybe that's true.

For you, there's nothing I wouldn’t do.
We’re growing older, slowly turning grey.
Don't die with your music still inside you.

I’ll always be there, even without a clue.
Live your life fully, don’t let it decay.
Mistaken for brothers, and maybe that's true.
Don't die with your music still inside you.

Six weeks from now everything changes.
Leaving family and friends, colleagues and neighbours.
No more car or address, speaking native to strangers.
Just me, two bags, and thoughts as a burden.
I step into the dreams that I dreamt for so long.

— — —

Travel has always soothed my mind.
Backseat, between my brothers.
I look outside and explain it all:
That road heads north, look there’s fish to catch!
It doesn’t matter where I go, inspiration everywhere.

— — —

The divorce doesn’t matter, mom and dad seem happy.
Twice the vacations! Twice the presents!
Never talk about the other house, pretend and please.
It’s just a secret. A trade for love.
I lie well. Kids do.

— — —

When I grow up I will see it all, no secret can hide from me!
I am independent, I don’t need your help.
Who do you think you are for even offering it to me?
I’m smarter than you, I will find my way.
There’s nothing I shouldn’t be able to reach on my own.

— — —

We are doing great on our own, don’t notice the mess.
We don’t want a family, can’t you imagine the stress?
No one understands the way we think, how we feel.
Why even try connecting if it’s not meant to be?
We know the stories. We tell them. We believe them.
Isn’t that enough?

There’s no need to run, is there?
Look how well you’ve been doing!
Don’t ruin it chasing what you’ll never keep!
Are you sure? Not just impulse again?
Is it really necessary?

— — —

Bless you for all that you’ve done for me.
I wish you’d leave now, it’s time, but I’m sure you’ll stay.
Tell me all the lies I used to love.
Where’s the doubt and shame?
Show me if you are still able to be creative.

It seems easy now, a simple life.
Would I have even gotten here, if it wasn’t for you?
Tickets booked, goodbyes planned.
Or maybe everything has already changed.

this transition
this phase
not the worst - maybe the best
could the kid have resurfaced
if not first folded into deep rest

Do I finally trust myself enough to be happy again?
Why have I allowed this inner critic to roam free?
How do I argue with the walls it built from solitude?
What made me choose guaranteed misery over the risk of being hurt?

Now I see its need to protect me.
Give it a seat at the table, listen, it's losing influence.
Numbness, the friend that always shows up.
Yes. Risk being seen, I'm done hiding.

If you only knew
how your eyes and mind still glow
I'm never alone