I am a butterfly nest
That holds caterpillars of dreams
And cocoons of potential.

They'll all grow to
Beautiful butterflies
Someday, one day.

Some butterflies are gentle
They all are colorful
And others have glass shards as wings.

Is my soul within my hands instead of in my heart?
For not my heart, but my hands are what I use to take part
In both good or evil, from ending to start
And my hands that paint the greys in this piece of art

Am I good though my hands carry on in violent desperation?
Grabbing selfishly at life in strife regardless of evil's escalation
No thought of others, valor, or God's promised vindication
You look at me and see yourself in the evaluation

Can I prove I am more than stepping stones composed of good intentions?
And if so, then do actions and therefore my soul aide in good's intervention
Are these lines embedded in my palms signs of past transgressions
Or a tally of the justice I've yet to do in this fragile life's progression

Age-assumptions are allowed
where youth is concerned
because --
EVERYONE WANTS TO BE YOUNG.
But truthfully,
the gift is not in the youth itself,
but in the young people.
Just as with people of greater age,
young people have talents, strengths, and wisdom.
The difference lies in our perception that
youth have more time to realize their potential.
That they will, in time, become something great
-- and yet --
the challenge really should be for all,
that we grow past our labels
realize our potentials
and become who we're meant to be
TODAY.

This world has a lot to take in.
It turns and turns stopping for no one
While I just sit and take it all in,
Take turns, take turns. Waiting for the next one.
No, this first-grade paradigm
That controls how I think and see what's fair
Doesn't really apply this time.
Cause first-grade knowledge isn't for just anywhere.
It's for the classroom,
The safe room.
The place where I sit and wait room.
I'm dying just to break through.
But I can't. See they hate you.

They take what they think is theirs.
Never waiting for the rule of turns.
Never thinking how the world fares.
When every bridge they cross burns.
What about the rest of us?
How are we supposed to move forward?
When none but the "very best" of us
Move on past our story's fore-word?
It's horrible and grueling.
Cause the "special ones" are ruling.
They ask, "Who you fooling?"
You'll always be a normal.

Why can't we all be special ones?
Why can't we all have that privilege?
Why must we all be the fretful ones,
Always worried about our image?
Worried that we won't look right.
Or that we won't be up to *****.
Cause when we take off our makeup each night
We no longer feel like enough.
No, it's too much.
Our minds are filled with thus and such.
But thus and such are just a crutch.
When we aren't enough.

At least, that's what they tell us.
Make us think we have to be gods.
Cause honestly that's the best way to sell us.
It doesn't matter if they're frauds.
See Humanity longs to be sufficient.
Able to satisfy itself.
So we do what we can with vision.
But leave our skills up on the shelf.
It doesn't matter or make sense.
To make some sort of recompense
When we never lost our innocence
Except by failing ourselves.

See, we fail to see our potential.
That special thing that makes us us.
But in the end it's the most essential.
It's the only thing we can trust.
Whether it's our brain, or our brawn,
Our very will to survive.
It's the very thing that let's us press on
The only think that makes us alive.
We have talents, our gifts.
But our spirits they need lifts
That come through paradigm shifts
From what's fair to what's real.


It's a hard disparity to master.
But in the end it's always alright.
Cause it's only part of growing up.
Seeing the changes that came overnight.

Every single time we go to your car to light up a cap or a bowl
that never leaves us with nothing, we can feel something, even if it’s just the stinging in our fingertips as we draw ships and cats
on the windows, convinced we could make masterpieces
if we really wanted to. When we finally gather enough ambition to move inside, I sit on a couch somewhere and think about how my life
has led to a moment like this and I question every insecurity, every decision, and every conviction, but I just can’t get over how nice
it would be to taste cake or cream cheese bagels right now
and eventually we end up watching the same shows with the same people who make the same mistakes every single episode and it really does remind me of that video you showed
me with the disturbing sitcom theme song that never ended,
and that’s what this night is all about.

Disregard my silent replies, I’m listening,
I just keep staring in the mirror and wondering if lacquered eyes
and lazy expressions are what you think looks good
on me because whenever you look at me, I try to focus on your face before you kiss over my ribs and I take my socks off
because there’s safety in socks and maybe that’s why we feel
such a devastation when they can’t be found. I’ve lost mine in your
room and I think maybe that stands for something, but here’s the thing:
I just don’t understand why everything you do makes me so nervous.

she sits patiently
waiting for the light to shine on her
Her tears blind her
Unable to speak because of shadow's grief
The person who owns the shadow is small
But the shadow is ever so large

The girl screams I have potential!
She runs but the shadow holds onto her
She fights and fights to try to find the light
She stops realizing she will always be in the shadow

There's no point crying or screaming or running
So she sits looking into the shadow
The girl whispers to herself I am nothing without the light

I’m working on saying what I feel
when I feel it
rather than when it’s too late
the harm’s already been caused
and the ones I love
are already gone.

I’m working on admitting to hurt
that others ground into me
rather taking it over and over again
while you can’t know what’s wrong
or ever notice your simple misuse
of word and clause.

I’m working on being proud
of galaxies I have to offer
rather than holding in ideas
and little pieces of myself
that weren’t meant to be pushed
so far from everything
just sitting on a shelf.

I’m working on it, I promise,

but for now I’ll give you this
so you will know to hold on
and please

don’t give up
on what I can be.

     For all that's wrong,
                   wait for me.

it’s like
the clock is still working
but the gears are no longer turning

i’m burning up on empty

fuel
dripping,
leaking,

no longer capable of containing
contemplations too volatile
for proper taming,
and so i’m just… resting.

a dormant chamber of magma
underneath the bedrock is often
due for massive explosion
but i never liked being out of control
and the last thing i need are
for my insides to get torn open.
a tree bearing great fruits
brilliantly disguised to hide its
reckless disharmonious motion.

That is fear speaking.
Apprehension.

Avoiding the waves because
what follows next is spinning
down through the vortex**
violently into uncharted oceans.