People have butterflies
In their stomach they say,
When something tickles their heart away.
They say something dances in there,
That something gets them all red .
That is how they know
When something is good for their heart,
The butterflies, I suppose is a sign of love
-captured in their heart,
Making their way around,
The butterflies dances to someone else's songs
And the world they live in
Gets brighter.
People say
They have butterflies
In their stomach,
When someone tickles their heart
But all I feel is a burn
As if acid churns up my soul.
It rises in my guts to my heart
Perhaps to burn the love
Or the fingers perhaps that tickles it,
Perhaps because
the butterflies in my stomach
are dead!
In others they remain dormant
In mine they just died for living too long
In hope but no fingers to carve their world.
Maybe they died in their pupas
Suffocated by all the strangling hands,
Or maybe they flew away
In search of someone in the past.
But the acid I feel
Is their ashes still ablaze,
I guess that is what is most probable
That they died long ago,
Been stuck there for too long
Held hostage by my fear
And burnt by the matches
People unknowingly rubbed along.
And so every time something,
Every time you tickle my heart,
I guess it is good for it,
Fire burns in my stomach,
Rises up my guts
And I run to throw up,
To throw it all away.
I don't think I am made to tickle.
I have fire in my heart,
It burns everything away
And I have carcasses of wings to clean up!
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:20 AM UTC
People have butterflies
In their stomach they say,
When something tickles their heart away.
They say something dances in there,
That something gets them all red .
That is how they know
When something is good for their heart,
The butterflies, I suppose is a sign of love
-captured in their heart,
Making their way around,
The butterflies dances to someone else's songs
And the world they live in
Gets brighter.
People say
They have butterflies
In their stomach,
When someone tickles their heart
But all I feel is a burn
As if acid churns up my soul.
It rises in my guts to my heart
Perhaps to burn the love
Or the fingers perhaps that tickles it,
Perhaps because
the butterflies in my stomach
are dead!
In others they remain dormant
In mine they just died for living too long
In hope but no fingers to carve their world.
Maybe they died in their pupas
Suffocated by all the strangling hands,
Or maybe they flew away
In search of someone in the past.
But the acid I feel
Is their ashes still ablaze,
I guess that is what is most probable
That they died long ago,
Been stuck there for too long
Held hostage by my fear
And burnt by the matches
People unknowingly rubbed along.
And so every time something,
Every time you tickle my heart,
I guess it is good for it,
Fire burns in my stomach,
Rises up my guts
And I run to throw up,
To throw it all away.
I don't think I am made to tickle.
I have fire in my heart,
It burns everything away
And I have carcasses of wings to clean up!
