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.

I listen,

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

wrong,

odd,

lost , unsure and

off course.

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?

Are you?

If I could maintain beauty and grace

while tearlessly leaving this place,

I would.

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.