Frailty and a Butterfly Soul
he flinches in the light,
checking himself for sins
he might have missed
when he tried
to scrub the darkness away,
but his soul is frail
like butterfly wings,
and he opened holes
beneath the mist
he wears as skin,
shaped like the bristles
of whiskey and cigarette burns,
harsh like good intention
possessed by weakness.
but there is no door
in the cocoon
shaped for re-entry,
no wisp of nature's breath
that forms a current
back to the beginning,
no passage beneath the clock,
but he rises, knowing,
can still glide home.
My naked butterfly girl
with gossamer wings
folded inside her breast,
soar in my dreams as
your wings unravel,
on earthly currents.
Flit in yellow blazes of
tides of joy turning waves
toward your face,
a joyous reunification
of haunting last supper
of ambrosial nectar.
March in blue formations
of tissue paper wings
flutter my way
in a rebirth of your
symbolizing the yearning
in my pleading soul
for you to dance
in my fantasies.
Escape the cage
which robs your spirit
and hides you within.
Crawl within my essence
and become one
with my heart
and float with me
on airy wings.
Butterfly Cry, Butterfly Die
The artists rarely depict the torture
How deeply it cuts
How sharply it stings
How cruelly it burns
How you're squeezed from all sides
You're frozen, trapped
You cry out in torment,
giving a voice to your pain
But your darkest scream
Comes out as a tiny whisper
No one hears you
No one would help even if they did
You canʼt help yourself
You see nothing but midnight
You feel nothing but torment
You canʼt even move a finger
Every breath is a struggle
When the air is full of needles
Every breath slices into your throat
Leaving your lungs in ribbons
You wish for death
But God hates you
So you live
Welcome to your new reality
Breath of fresh air
The pain releases you from its hateful grip
And you're free
And you have new wings
And a new body
But you don't care,
You've just gotta get away
Now go farther
You check over your shoulder
Is the pain in pursuit?
You're scared to relax,
You're scared the hurt will find you again
Meanwhile painters paint
The singers sing while the poets prose
Your metamorphosis is renowned worldwide
Countless odes to your transformation
Praise of your newfound beauty
You are a living testament
the Beauty of Change
Fuck them all
They don't know the cost of your existence
They don't know you'd give up your beauty
In an instant, with no hesitation
If you could relive life without the pain
If you could settle the fear
That keeps you running
Keeps you hiding and avoiding
Keeps you safe
Until the terror and memories
Are too much
Way too fucking much
Because now this hurts too,
The fear keeps your prisoner
Just as the pain did
And you can't take it
You won't take it
So you fly into a windshield
And now you aren't so pretty anymore
Why the Butterfly
They say we flit through windows
In the middle of the night
When the cobblers, thieves, and widows,
Creep and weep by candlelight
They say we steal the butter
They made to wet their bread
They say it would be better
If all of us were dead
We churn our soil with poison
Into butter sow we salt
Their wings we take our joys in
A precious trophy of our faults
To Keep Us Gentle
We were told
touching butterfly wings
would remove their dust,
their scales and
from flying. We
the quickest way to become
truck drivers: tobacco-thick lips,
eyes under-slept, red-vesseled and
to hold onto, stay close to our imaginations like
they are up there with all of the greatest things
we can love, all the are greatest things we can
possibly imagine, and,
we were told
that if we cross our eyes for too long,
they would become permanently stuck looking
inward, even if we claim innocence, claim that we
had a butterfly land on the bridge of our nose, and
we were only
to keep gentle.
Beware of Crazy Butterflies
Did you know? That when a butterfly
Flaps its wings in the Amazonian jungle.
My house, here in Europe
Could be washed away by a storm.
In fact I saw it on a book cover
And I read it in the papers
Also at an exhibition in a gallery
Oh and in a philosophy blog.
And they are suckers for blood
Particularly at Halloween
So beware of butterflies
They are Draculas in disguise
Never kill them
Create wild flower patches
Smear garlic on your neck at night
Only then are you safe!
On April 15, 1865 John Wilkes Booth draws a pistol. He points it at the back of President Abraham Lincoln's head.
A ghostly white butterfly flaps through the theater, lands on his pistol.
He pauses... turns his head in bewilderment...
There's no telling where the butterfly came from, or the chain of events that led to this butterfly, landing on this gun, at this time...
A Secret Service agent spots him, shoots several times, twice in the head. Lincoln walks from the assassination attempt unscathed.
The universe shifts to something parallel...
The U.S.A. sends the first man to the moon with the help of their Russian comrades.
1958. The Great War begins...
Axis (China, India, Korea, Italy, Spain) take on Allies (Japan, England, Germany, France, Russia, and the U.S.A.)
1964. The Great War ends.
Quarter of the world dies off. Barely any young men left on the planet. Allies wins.
1982. Information Age.
Global prosperity. Each country(286) holds onto a nuclear missile as a token of peace.
1993. The Social Divide.
Automation stacks the majority of the world's wealth to the top 1%. People suffer. A global base income is established which alleviates unemployment strains.
2011. The League of Nations.
The L.N. is born, every major country on the planet joins. Worldwide nuclear disarmament is initiated.
2025. The Age of Oppression.
The L.N. is corrupt and abusive. Widespread surveillance and restriction of freedoms.
The President of the L.N. watches a holo-play in Central Park. The holographic actor's blue glow wraps around the trees, audience's attentive faces...
The play is called "Our American Brother" and the President's theater box hovers over the commoners below.
On the skyline behind him, a figure floats silently through the air with the aid of a grav pack. He pulls a large revolver, draws down on the President from above.
A ghostly white butterfly flaps through the air... the President smiles, sticks out his finger and it lands on it.
"Ever thus to tyrants." The assassin whispers to himself, pulls the trigger.
Blue light tears through the back of the Presidents head. His agents turn and fire round after round into the assassin.
The grav pack is hit, his body drifts downward in a gentle spiral...
the commoners below watch him fall slowly towards them.
Blood drips down on them as they gather round. There's a silence, a respect; he's killed their oppressor. They catch him, hold him before he touches Earth.
They watch him die in their hands... he fades away smiling.
I wonder how I made you feel whenever we're in the same room.
I wonder if your eyes ever wonder on me too.
I wonder if you even know I was with you
It feels like I'm always in a battle whenever you're near me
A battle between my heart and my brain
In which the butterflies resides in me
Many times I've tried to stop my self from feeling this
I've had no idea how many times more do I have to
Because no matter what I say or do, no matter how much I deny to others my feelings for you, it's just a matter of split second, it's a war between my stomach and the butterflies that come alive whenever you're near me.