watching the washing machine
and learning how cycles work
small hands wait for wings
and to escape their caterpillar coating
years pass by as their eyes close
the cocoon winding tighter than a swaddle
the worm of doubt wriggles in
through an opening not meant
and the beads of sweat form on their brows
as they scream from inside their lie
throats hoarse, knees close.
the cocoon shatters.
You were not born to be a butterfly.
YOU ARE READING
Feathers: A Book of Poetry
PoetryA pencil is the spotlight of a soul. It tells them its okay to overflow. It tells them ideas are art, and that the best ones are masterpieces. Feathers is a collection of poetry by me to convey the beauty and undeniable strife of the world, and emot...
