I killed a butterfly today  
then tried to write a poem  
I don’t know why I did it  
It died without a home  
It struck me as compelling  
as I recalled what my parents used to say  
be mindful of your surroundings  
a flap of butterfly wings can change a day  


I thought little of it then  
yet now I obsess as I reminisce  
if a butterfly flap can change so much  
what of the absence of it?  
Have I sealed my fate to infamy  
or paved my way to riches  
but maybe if I **** another?  
my unforeseeable fate switches  


But what’s a butterfly to me?  
it wasn’t much before  
now you expect me to believe  
it holds the key to what’s in store?  
Free will must exist  
at least as long as I believe it to  
foolish of me to think my dead butterfly  
could have some affect on you  


Yet I sit here thinking  
of thoughts I’ve never had  
a liar I would be to tell you  
that I haven’t changed a tad  
It did not have a name  
and I did not have a reason  
yet as I blankly stared down  
I felt as if I had committed treason  


So I sweep away the body  
and leave the room to clear my head  
if my hand’s never clapped  
this butterfly would not be dead  
so be wary of the change you bring  
the waves you choose to make  
that butterfly could have changed a day  
and not believing that was my mistake

If all good love poems
rest on metaphors
Then I'll write with one
that you could've searched
the world three times over for
and never found before

like the last puppy
lying on its on back
in front of a convenience store
the one that was unaccounted for

that little crease on the windshield
the one your wipers could never reach
or that annoying kid with ADD
the one your teacher could never teach
(me)

time is at once infinite and definite
life is short, yet is the longest thing we'll ever do
why must we lust for forever
when we know a dinner for two at 2 would do

Prince and Princess charming aren't walking through that door
which makes me question what we believe in happily ever after for
and I won't become a cynic
and if only a writer that could never write is deemed a critic
then i'll drop my pen
and drink all the ink in it

love is a four letter bubble
what looks to be
a meandering ascent into nothingness to those outside
but is a self sustaining world to those who inhabit it

what good is an art
if one can not master it

face it
a critic's a poet and a writer
that could never quit

I am the poorly poured glass of water hovering over the edge
defying god and gravity, philosophy and physics

I don't want to be disingenuous
perhaps using the word disingenuous isn't the best start
I am depressingly self-aware
so much so that it took me 45 minutes to write that line

I wish I was younger
just so I could live with ignorance a bit longer
and let it cradle me like a baby
I now understand why every movie follows the unknowing hero
We all want to relate
like one big game of the emperor's new clothes

I thought I was destined for greatness
to be fair I still do

I've been having a ton of existential crises lately
suppressing each one more than the last
it's like there is a little man inside of me
banging on the glass
begging to be let out
but I don't want to
because he strikes me as an honest little man
and I'm afraid I might not like what he has to say

One time my therapist asked me if I had ever thought about suicide
I don't think that's the right question
I think about it a lot
not for me specifically but others

I don't believe in God
not so much the creator thing
because who knows
but more the life after death part
because if there's truly nothing
if it really is black
then that might be better than the hell some people live in right now
death is better than torture, death is better than the loss of hope

What I'm saying is
maybe I'm afraid the worst thing that will ever happen to me is death
and maybe I'm wrong
but I'm afraid I won't live a life worthy of being lived

This isn't a happy story
I don't think it's even a story at all
It certainly has an end
and by virtue of being told
it has a beginning

It's the middle part that becomes murky
how do you a quantify a human life
the little intricacies that you can't even remember
the butterfly, whose wings
flapped a few too many times
leading me to this

Standing 746 feet above the water

I wonder if it would always end this way
if every fork in the road would eventually curve inward
if every call would remain unanswered
if every love would fade

I think that's the funny thing about objectivity
it exists in isolation

this is my story
or lack thereof

*Jump

Even if we were meant to be
I know you'd skip over me
like apple seeds