When the words in my head
Don't make any sense
But they rhyme

I don't like being left in the dark

I'll always care, but I need to know

You don't know about the recent spirals, the pain, the inner torture

It'd do me grace to find someone still cared.

But...I'm not a guilt tripper either.

I don't drop things.

Not friends, names, or pasts.

Most importantly, memories.

Answer me.

Was it about me?

I often do that a lot.

Find words that mean what I wish she'd say.

But the real question lies thus;

who was that meant for?

I can no more weave words
than an arthritic spider.

All I do is open my fingertips
and let loose the emotions too powerful
to let out of my mouth
in hopes that they aren't sullied by the printed letter.

How is this silver?

I do wish someone would tell me
what effect,
to what extent,
my words
can inspire
love

and oh, if only that love
were in the eyes
of the muse

Nor does anyone, at this point, know who he or she is.

We all compare ourselves to an ideal image of ourselves
kept captive against our irises
by our eyelids

This is why
I'm stuck
in a broiling ocean
of self-discovery

No different from the experiences of others, all flailing and trying to stay afloat around me,
but just as tragic.
We do not pity one another.

We fight harder to earn the freedom that will allow us
to help others out of the water
when we in turn are strong enough

I'll hold back my longing to quote Shakespeare's sagacity here
and instead apologize,
though I know not what for.

The world is indeed cold and unforgiving.

It is how we forge our way through hoping for the best
that makes us
who we are.

When I say I love you more,
I don't mean I love you more than you love me.
I mean I love you more than the bad days ahead of us,
I love you more than any fight we'll ever have.
I love you more than the distance between us,
I love you more than any obstacle that can try to come between us.
I love you most.

When the butterfly has flown the lily graced flower
That has been the family home for generations upon generations,
Whose petals have protected against mites for decades;
When she has left with no intention of looking back over one jaded ruby wing
To reminisce upon all she's leaving behind
Between the silken walls of her childhood home;
That's when the community begins to judge her.

Scarlet wings gallantly breezing through the air with nary an effort, she glides above the rest, destination unknown.
Laughs, sneers, jeers, and scorn rise from the ground below her gravitating form like smoke from a house fire.

~She's afraid of her past.

~Her family must have disowned her.

~It's her own fault, anyways.

High above them, she still hears everything, but pretends not to. After all, life will soon be her oyster, far away from this place.

Far away from the crowds of rude sociality that insist upon knowing every last detail about her life and pursuits, morphing her most sacred details into gossip fit for the common lunch table at the Meadowlands Cafe.

Far away from the friends who helped her grow until she realized her wings were too large and beautiful to hide or fit within the confines of this dulling, lifeless community.

And far, far, far away from the smoldering smoke that emanated from the last tulip at the Far East side of the community, the burning of leaf and petal that had prompted her leaving once and for all.

Scarlet like her wings, her past has gone up in flames. Soon, the butterfly is past the scorning and pointing of fingers and into the wild unknown. Only here does she bite her lip and look back, against her better judgement. And then she smiles.

All that's left of her past is a cloud of bad memories mixed with the haze of gossip and the smoke from a home that never felt like it was her own.

So she pushed on. Scarlet flutters through turquoise until she disappears, a red blob on the hazy horizon.

She has overcome. And she is free.