When They Fly
Mesmerized by the colors,
I sit back just to admire.
I say “Oh, What a beautiful array!”
and I pay close attention to the shapes.
There’s beauty in the stance:
sitting on a flower.
They don’t realize the flowers aren’t the reason
I visit the garden, they are.
But they don’t speak.
They exhaust no sound.
They don’t notice me
and that’s the reason
every part of me turns green,
starting with my narrowed eyes.
Without any effort at all,
they take off into the wind and fly.
Full of grace and poise, they pose into the air.
The tools are two beautiful wings.
They move quickly, cause who has time to spare?
If only I could fly away…
As a teen I felt misplaced.
I’m 22 today.
You’d think I would of
allowed myself to become
better acquainted with this place.
I’ve had no such luck.
I haven’t made a friend yet,
But I won’t give up.
I was born to be
lost , unsure and
Of course, I was born to be art.
Quit asking why I admire the butterflies.
Quit asking why
I keep getting them inked
onto my body.
Why take a peculiar interest in me,
when you’re not investing time in me
to get me wings?
If I could maintain beauty and grace
while tearlessly leaving this place,
I couldn’t, I can’t , I shouldn’t…
I ran and turned back around.
If I could fly to the sun,
for some reason I don’t see myself
wanting to come back down.
Stability is a clown.
In my heart, I know I’d never feel alone
if every day could find me a new home.
If I had a peaceful life, would I be able to write?
I guess not,
but I still envy those colorful wings
when they fly.