The Sad Butterflies | poem

What isn’t real cannot hurt me
But nothing is less real than Reality
Yet each day it destroys me,
Each day it destroys me…

Nothing feels as real as this misery ;
I can feel them buzzing inside of me
With wings made of painful memories,
Wings pulled by rotten strings.

Oh, here they come, the sad butterflies,
Waking up the storms in my stomach
Sowing anything but happiness,
Things I’ll never see coming.

Bitter nectar trickles up my throat ;
Silent breezes make my skin crawl ;
I grit my teeth and pray they don’t fall ;
In the hot summers, I still wear a coat.

This is not the tale that I was sold :
Those butterfly flutters are only cold
And the rain washed away the gold
Off the only pearls I ever got to hold.

Tales of happiness have gotten old…
Ever since I swallowed that blindfold,
Life has become an unstable platform
And I’ve lived twenty four years in the storm.

I have fought and fought but now I fold ;
I am and always will be walking down that road,
Addicted to the sadness at the back of my throat,
The heavy darkness that I wear like a coat,
And the rain from which my heart is soaked.

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