What is your identity without someone to love? Someone to think about. To talk about. What is your identity without an illness? A definite symptoms list that describes everything we do wrong. Excusing the behavior you don't understand. If that is true, we might all be infected
Like a butterfly’s wings, they are beautiful in nature. To the outside world their wings are art. To them their wings are just legs. A necessity for survival. Made to carry the weight of society. Forced to handle it cleanly.
But the butterfly isn't alone, it has a lover. The centipede may not have its own wings, But it will love the butterfly no matter what. Walk miles for them. In sand or storms. Because even if the centipede doesn't have wings to fly, It still has legs to walk.
The sky isn’t a freedom. It is a liberty in which we take advantage of. The sky is a freedom. If freedom was meant to be a closed door. No mammal hasn’t once looked at the sky and uttered, “Why?”
The sky isn’t a freedom. It is a reminder of the vast that surrounds us. A reminder of the nothingness we are to the divine. Why must it be we who were meant to be when we can’t even celebrate life?
The sky isn’t a freedom. It’s the afterlife. The place all hates. I hate. And I hate that I hate. Why is everyone so filled with hate? Enough hate to weite poems and later hate those poems. Enough hate.
I hate that the sky isn’t a freedom. Why can’t it be a freedom?
