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Poetry
Butterflies

"Butterflies" - 11/11/03

questioning...how to fill in the space that comprises my moodiness, my empty soul-shell waging war with my too-full heart head...so beautiful talking with and listening tonight one shaking hand types and knows no words can match the awkward magic silence still she tries knowing recklessness is a small price for a net that catches butterflies so sweetly as you.
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there are are things about me that I already muse would off-put and confuse unless/until we first met on middle ground and for at least 48 hours just shared with no window through which shallow insecurity could creep. eccentricity's painfully short for bittersweet and I know I made light of my pseudo-sleeptalking but truly...I am by no means cured and self-understanding/acceptance still's new...
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would you, could you still meet me somewhere between fear and calm, knowing you have reached a shore I've only written poetry for and sung as young actress-girls feign easily being whores? to say you barely know me might feel like a slap in the face, when all I want to do is press your forehead and hold you like waves holding clarity and arms are only half the whole sentence, the other phrase eyes, endless, empathetic ice-blue.

please know that if I was reluctant to invite you in it is because I am ashamed not of where I live but who am I, how I can live with myself and swing so red and so yellow and so green back to white before hitting vice, semi-annually it seems, where secrecy wedges walls between myself and those...who claim to understand but ego-bruised...criticize.

I love who I am when I'm being the bard, but loathe am I to share what's still winter-hard though thawing slowly into understanding of malaises I'm not even so sure I always believe in, but which paralyzes me, nonetheless, within laugher's screaming. And of course, I have to laugh...and leave...and live this life...
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So whenever I meet someone who makes me feel temporarily free within illusion's steel I am hopefully hopeless, remorsefully happy, gratefully shattered as pieces of glass

all I ask...
all I ask...

is that you try to comprehend
that even the strongest of people (one of whom, in certain ways I surely am)
are not always the most insightful as to how

the mind can flounder
while the heart, brazen,
flies.

in your voice
stands my soul...

h y p n o t i z e d