Please don’t call it poetry.

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Tonight, I re-read Hope for the Flowers.  This is an excerpt from tonight’s private journal post. It’s not fucking poetry. I just broke it up because I felt broken when I wrote it.


My wings are still cramped, sodden, unfamiliar. I want to stretch them out, admire their span, see them flutter in the breeze – a hint of things to come.

I can never be a caterpillar again, now that I have seen the inside of my cocoon.

I mourn that life, because it is what I know. but I do so without any desire to return.

I desire for other caterpillars to join me in flight.

I will never forget those who choose to remain aground.

I will acknowledge that they needed to be one with the earth, while I needed to be one with the sky.

It’s okay to need different things at different times.

At least, that’s what my wings are whispering to me, as they twitch impatiently, begging me to try them out.

I don’t know that I’m ready. But my wings are in place. Now is as good a time as any.



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