i drew a butterfly on my wrist,
in hope that this feeling would no longer persist.
but things got bad and i started to cry
so the butterfly on my wrist, it had to die.
once again i tried to set myself free
but it seemed my thoughts had stolen the key.
so this butterfly lived a very short life
killed with fear and a very sharp knife.
YOU ARE READING
the way of life ; poems
Poetryrelatable stories, poems, quotes, etc. for sad people with sad lives. :(: