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Slime-God Sep 18
Like a tiny moth
I am drawn to these pages
To perish in flame
Kelly Hogan Aug 13
I was told long ago
That my light would attract others.
Maybe that's why I love moths so much.
Fluttering in and out of lives, maybe I am the light and a moth.
Bryn Kennell Jul 8
Oh ugly butterfly
They think less of you

When you were a caterpillar
There was hope
The children caught you
Placed you in a jar
Picked you leaves
And watched you grow

From a cocoon
Sprouted wings
But "oh no"
They were not colorful

The children released you
Just let you go
"Fly away ugly butterfly"
They scream and shout
"We do not love you
for you are not beautiful"
The children did not love him, for he was not beautiful.
Sarah Crispin Jun 10
What is a moth if not a butterfly
who's traded in her grace and colour
for pitter-patter sighs
Inked nights
To sift shy in shadows
And forever thirst for light
Soft Laughs in Dim lit taverns
Almost winked out flames
She's the tattered mistress of stars
forgotten partaker
Of a lesser praise
Liyanne May 14
Just like a moth
I'm drawn to your light
Desperate to find warmth
During these cold nights
I have to be cautious
of whats real or fake
One wrong move
and my life is at stake
KM Hanslik May 11
Pristine prisons,
probably the prettiest you've ever seen
from your 72-inch flatscreen;
if walls could talk, I hear you'd be in a pretty tight spot
but I'd rather not
shoot my shot with your skeleton crew,
because I've got a little angel, she just fell to earth too soon;
her halo choked her in her mother's womb, so she knows
pristine prisons,
probably the prettiest you've ever seen
windows painted lavender and walls bathed in evergreen;
peach-round face & woodsmoke eyes,
I want to comfort her with soft-spilled lies
but she already knows the horrid truth,
so I'll take her to a dim-lit roof
and talk about the moon.
I look at the decorative paper with colored illustrations of moths. They’re beautiful–why don’t people write more odes to moths? A moth is free.
The moth just like the butterfly comes to know flight, but when it’s sedentary it rests with its wings open unlike the butterfly. Why don’t we champion how it waits within this state of openness.
How when the moment comes it’ll be closer to readiness.

I look back at the many drawings on that same thin sheet over my desk and I want to cry. I guess I’m staying here a little longer; I will sit and rest like a moth–
preparing until I, too can take to the skies.
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