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erin Oct 2018
i think i often represent the butterfly i so often speak of
frail and weak in every step- my plain brown wings are just like the papery disgusting skin i want so badly to break out of, revealing my clearwinged beauty. but i've adapted to this form- i've changed. who cares for being disgusting- better to simply scare away the predators with my big nose and buggy eyes. who cares for being unloved- i do, for solitide is survival in this concrete jungle.
but i know better.
i am no graceful, gentle butterfly. satyrs are still lovely, despite being different, and i am not lovely. i know that these white wings cannot and will not be silenced. the beating drum behind me says otherwise. i am not butterfly. i am a falcon, and i do not dare hide behind a mask of a face. no-

i fight and claw my way out of it.
this is really more of a vent than a poem, but i still feel something important in it. i hope you enjoy.
The hanky he was sobbing into was crusty,
*****, unwashed, unclean; yet strangely comforting to a little boy,
as he cried he made his way to a culvert behind the school,
some place the other kids couldn’t see him crying,
it was more comfortable being near rocks
-next to that watershed for some reason?

He looked down at his antagonist,
the scaly-green feet,
they made him cry harder,
he lamented…

“Why have I been tormented so?”

“Who gave me these feet? Who made me this way, lizardly, scaly, an animal no?”

“What class am I, what species? Are those toenails, claws or a disease?”

“The way I’m treated makes me sad. Where is my mommy, where is my dad?

“Did I come from an egg? Didn’t we all? Why do they pick on me, make me feel so small?”

“My feet are reptilian even I can see that!”

“Am I part lizard? Are there horns on my back?”

“I can’t hide in sneakers ‘cause the claws tear them apart.”

“Not great at math, language or art.”

“They always pickin’ on me, today it’s in the schoolyard.”

“That is why I sit here on the rocks crying with my **** feet and sullen heart,”

“Cannot run fast so no baseball, basketball or soccer…”

“The other kids tried to stuff me in my own locker…”

“One mean little girl even threw a dead mouse at me!”

“But I’m only part lizard as far as I can see?”

“My English teacher says that my words are like a bird song”

“If I talk like a birdie along with monster’s feet, no wonder I don’t belong!”

“Even still, to be so mean to me, I know that it is wrong…”



“I am no freak of nature, no forest Pan or Satyr…”

“It is not the way I look, my clothes or feet that matter…”

“It is what is in my heart and mind, the things I do that truly count…”

“For those things that make us different, for they are tantamount…”

“Seven heads, seven stages, seven fables, seven sages”

“Seven stars and seven wonders and seven heavens that we’re under…”

“And all those things they say are great and marvelous about us…”

“Will one day be written in the book by Great Old Uncle Taautus!”
Children's rhyme. Scylla represents the rocks near shores who rend ships to pieces that venture to close to them.
DEW Mar 2016
I love this woman, I can't let her go.
Confession of love? I won't let her know.
I stop cupid in his tracks: catch arrow.
To make it all last I'll start real, real slow.

I leave hints of my name for her to see.
Her flowers tasted by my honey bee.
Whatever she creates I proselytize.
Billion degrees in my campfire eyes.
She is that sun to my bright dream night cries.

I'm lost in her affection though I've none.
I can imagine, her kisses are fun.
My glorious wishes won't be undone.
She is that mile target and I'm the gun.
When she says yes, I'll tell everyone!

A carefully crafted letter to her...
Sent back stamped denied, my vision's a blur.
I planned this so well, but not this failure.
This is a crime! Someone stop her! Jail her!
Sicker as days pass, my skin is paler.
I, noble warrior; she, impaler.

I've been a patriot in her nation,
She was supposed to be my savior.
**** this emotional constipation,
I should have just approached her earlier.
I suppose I'll try again... when I can.
Cupid readies his bow: another girl.
I halt his trigger finger... first, I plan.

Our hero, obsessing over opportunity: *"stuck in a loop"

Made certain his failure would return; luck into ****.
Squandered opportunity we all know,
But it is failure we line out in a row.
This is why he's the hero, he never gives up,
But he never amounts to anything...
urrghh! I'm gonna throw up.
I love this one.
Ever since I took writing seriously and got into writing stories more than poetry (at one point I ignored poetry completely) my poems have become more about stories.

I'd like to write more "breathy" poems about nature and love.
I'll get to write some soon.
I'd also like to write a spine-tingling one, I admit it's fun now.

However, my poems concerning wisdom, irony, satyr, and all-around knowledge, I have special relationships with.

I wrote on Facebook six or seven years ago: "That's the thing about life, it's a satyr of itself."

I'd reached a point where I thought I knew everything "in a sense", but life really threw me a curve-ball. Now I'm seeing it more towards the right way, and it's exciting. However, realizing you have so much responsibility that you weren't aware of is daunting.

Writing poetry helps express that.
So, if you're wondering what this poem is about, read into this section and you'll understand.

Enjoy! :)
SerZatarra Jun 2014
You know what I hate?
all of this romantic over dramatic gush,
I mean come on people I just ate.
There you are smooching and touching,
running your fingers through her hair,
and later tonight you'll probably be *******..
Now don't get me wrong I have a girl,
and yeah she's kinda great..
and makes my world turn..
And the way her hair falls on her face
I just can't take it
it makes my heart race
and by the time i get home after being with her
and I'm alone in the dark
and my vision starts to blur
i think of the boy and girl and the touching,
the hugging the kissing
the feeling the *******
and i just can't help but
maybe realizing that maybe this romance thing isn't that,
Maybe that love is actually enticing,
not something to hate but something
So as I sit here alone in the dark,
it's twisting tendrils lulling me to sleep,
i think of her and I in a park,
hugging and kissing,
just her and me.

— The End —