Trapped behind the iron bars in the cage of my mind.
I dilly dally and wrestle with putting aside who I am.
For what if others don't like who they see before them?
See I'm aware that rejection is a cold and heavy prize.
Yet, I'm used to and acquainted with the way of sorrows.
But the masses of people prefer the joy of the acceptable.
And so I fight holding back the tears of darkened nights.
For soon morning will rise and I will go forth with a mask.
It's just too paralyzing to reveal to others who I really am.
Into the world I go, imprisoned by shackles of my mind.
Prisoner of self doubt and people pleasing is who I am.
Because God forbid they should feel the pain that I feel.
I'd rather revert and crawl back into the safety of my shell.
Raveling into the shackles of the frame of my weary bones.
But I should pose the question, what is so terrible about me.
What could it be about me that hasn't been seen before?
Is it my simple brown eyes beneath my hooded eyelids?
Could it be woven, twisted curls cascading from my head?
Maybe due to height challenge and speaking with an accent.
Is it that I'm severely sensitive and extremely, painfully shy?
Who knows, the mystery lies in that I myself don't even know.
There I am wanting to say hello, but hoping for a quick exit.
It's of essence to be prepared in case timidity hovers over.
And there I am a wallflower in the party sitting by the wall.
The ugly chrysalis shrinks back into the safety of her shell.
Comfortably secured in the safety of my chains and shackles.
You see I'm not ready for the unraveling of breaking forth.
So I wage the war of the imprisonment that suffocates me.
For I feel the butterfly's journey, is undeserving and distant.
An unknown new territory in my simplicity to undertake.
Because what kind of butterfly would I become anyhow?
I mean, I'm caged in my jail by the agony of self denial.
I'm in chains and shackles of my frame's skin and bones.
How can I be a beautiful butterfly? I don't dare to even fly!
I crawl through my existence in this awkward body of mine.
But I would like to fly, fly, fly like the free butterfly fly, fly, fly.
I want to glide with the grace that she glides through in life.
I want to fly, fly, fly like everyone else in this world does.
For butterflies come in many spectacular shapes and colors.
They take the redemptive flight of freedom's journey solo.
Butterflies don't care about the incarceration of the process.
They just willingly trust and obey nature's gruesome plight.
Taking steps in cycles and stages they break forth and fly.
So I fight and wait until the day when I am good and ready.
For I know when I'm prepared I too will take freedom's flight.
My soul will whisper to my being, "It's now your time to go!"
"Fly butterfly in the beauty and the freedom of who you are!"
Our hands paint intimate conversations
on the canvas of our flesh.
We speak without word or voice,
guided by the whims of our breath.
In the ebony of this night, I am not afraid
Because my heart is bound to yours
with a ribbon of November silk.
I consider for a moment, the way
your flesh responds to my touch.
The moonlit ebb and flow
of shadows upon your skin,
glittered with sparks of ecstasy.
Lying beside you, I close my eyes
And you turn towards the cave of my neck,
taking your rightful place in my arms.
My heart quickens in anticipation
of the intimate moment when
Our breathing becomes one and
I am unsure of where I begin
and end in this embrace and
I do not care because I am certain
at this moment I do not need to exist
Apart from you.
The chemistry of our breath swells
with the nectar of dreaming
and I catch a waning glimpse
of a glowing butterfly fluttering
in the aether above us.
I will never untie this November silk
to loosen the tether between us.
I do not want to be alone
in the ebony of this night
without a word to say,
Without someone whose heart
is bound to mine.
I realize that I am jealous of the sun’s
kiss upon your delicate, caramel skin.
The fervent glow of Her lips
pressed against your supple flesh
singes the curve of my mind’s rapture.
I cannot concentrate when she
leers at me with fervent embers in her eyes.
I touched the blue butterfly, resting
on a glowing, peach rose before us
as our fingers loosely interlocked in the heat.
You cried because someone told you
that the butterfly would never fly again,
but I knew that was not true.
Black mirror, black mirror
everybody believes you are me
ever since the war, they know
a mechanical butterfly
can't move it's wings
by sheer will.
The baby tiger in captivity
turns into a cat,
back and forth and again,
with the mystery and sadness
of a crumpled paper than none
will ever read. Take it all,
the time, the sky,
the habit of downward spiraling,
there is a certain discipline
required to scale yourself
down so you can fit your arms
around a giant.
With my back towards it,
I have discovered that ignorance
is not always bliss,
only less awkward.
Black mirror also lies,
his optical illusions are only
phantom words and fire,
whichever comes first.
And he can also be a prism.
The colors of a monarch
When it is not weighed down
By cold wet sand
Its wings were wet and broken
So it lay motionless
Under the dull sky
It tried to fly
Only to be carried by the wind
A moment of hope
Before it was thrown down
Into the unforgiving sand
It should have died
Marcisouly it was still alive
I picked it up
It was so weak that it went into my hand
And stayed there
For it was to broken to fly
I carried it off the beach
And built it a house of shells
That will most likely be its grave
The colors of a butterfly
When it is not caked with sand
When the beauty is not broken
When it is flying high
Instead of being batted down
By the wind