The garden on my skin died
The flowers disintegrated to ash
Shadows of petals seeping
Into the cracks of my skin
Becoming nothing once more
Now butterflies fly
Along my painted arm
With a new message of hope
As they flutter beautifully
Covering who I am
With symbolic metaphors
Of everything I need
And who I want to be
Who I need to be...
These butterflies are me
And yet I will never be them
Never fly so high
As to reach such perfection
But these butterflies became me
So maybe
I can become a butterfly
YOU ARE READING
Random Thoughts
PoesiaThis is kind of just my brain and random thoughts I feel like sharing with someone in the middle of the night. Don't take any of it for more than it is because I'm always fine. Also, please don't judge the whole book by the first few poems. I promis...
