Is it all beauty? Are we all angels? or is it just call of duty to our primal selves, Let’s compete, beat, eat and make sure we’re top dog on the street. Thats nature after all. Adam and Eve after the fall Cast out,no hope, no vision All our progress an illusion Get back to the garden? ha! We have to give ourselves the pardon Let go, understand it’s all ok Man’s tapestry is just as fine As a butterfly wing design.

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.

NOT A STORY OR POME SORRY

Happy thanksgiving everyone I hope you had lots to be thankful for this year

I am happy to announce that Revenge part 1 is finished now I just have to edit it ( I hate the editing part)

Well happy writing and read and God bless you all 🖤💜

Red, blue Purple and green These and more Are the colors I see

Your wings are like a kaleidoscope Beautiful and full of glamour Yet they tend to just remind me Of how easily we shatter

When I look at you You remind me of… Of…

Well I don’t know You are like a gun shot to the head Startling and sudden And yet not unexpected

Just like the patterns In those gorgeous wings Human emotions Are a complicated thing

*authors note: This poem is not fully finished/I think I can do better, but I want to post it anyway. There’s no point in me having a poem app to get opinions on my writing if I’m not posting anything. Anywho, loves! 💜🩵💙

His wings were perfect and vibrant. While hers were tattered from the last one. But instead of healing her wings and taking care of them. Her took pleasure in beating them black and blue. Took pleasure in cheating and making her sob too. After a while he left, and left her broken again. She became more and more tattered throughout the days. Until she met the next one. His wings had been healed, bandaged,and sealed. She was afraid to go to him, but he embraced her naturally. He welcomed her with open arms, and began tending to her wings. Healing them as he was healed. Slowly but surely. Poor girl never felt loved until him. So he was sure to heal all he could and help her with the rest of the pain. For he knew too what it was like to be tattered. He knew too what it was like to be hurt. So he made sure to heal her, because he too had once been hurt.

my wings help me soar my wings keep me up but my wings can be a burden my wings are gorgeous my wings are dazzling but my wings can be unappealing

the wing called george george is bouncy and powerful george is colorful, never dull george is heavy and finnicky george is unstable and easy to sprain

the wing called chris chris is strong and reliable chris is fun and easy, flowy chris is hard to read chris is picky & wants its own way

the wing called ken ken is cute and sweet ken is unique and gorgeous ken is a trouble to fly with ken is distant and dragged out

the wing called tom tom is funny and witty tom is smart and strong tom is not present a lot tom is easy to snap to the angry side

the wing called nat nat is light and caring nat is true and intelligent nat is easy to lecture you nat is forgetful and traditional

i love you george i love you chris i love you ken i love you tom i love you nat

They’d have you think we’re simple, diluted and disillusioned, eluding fierce allusions, visions of grandeur etched, in seconds, into the wings of a butterfly. We’re taught to follow patterns, and patterned to follow. Her wings shame Gogh, humble Dali, confuse her predatory world, lift her into the air, then ask her, “Would cruel nature truly select beauty?” The butterfly shrugs with great portraits flitting over to a blossom just as beautiful as she in an ignorant world of ugly man

——

Today I’m on Libra, yesterday was Capricorn (in case you need to know —— or if I forget it) I’ve seen them all, I think. Save Scorpio, but of course I don’t belong in this land of stars.

——

In gardens where the butterflies dance,
Wings adorned in intricate chance,
A tapestry of colors bright,
Mirrors the heart’s own tangled flight.

Each pattern tells a story spun,
Of whispers shared, of battles won.
Spots like secrets, bold and deep,
Stripes of trust in shadows creep.

Some wings are fierce, with edges sharp,
Echoing love’s often tumultuous arc.
Others, soft with pastel hues,
Reflect the calm in quiet views.

Through storms and sun, they twist and weave,
Much like the ties that we believe.
In every flutter, life unfolds,
A fragile beauty, a bond that holds.

For a second I thought We were the same. For a second I compared Myself to you. In the third second There is our love.

I’ve always been fascinated by monarchs, How the seem to glide effortlessly in the wind, How the lines on their wings is like paint on a canvas, Sometimes I wish I was a butterfly, I could soar instead of fall, I could be admired instead of tired, But I’m not a butterfly, I’m me, And the lines on my thighs aren’t like paint on a canvas, Their like crinkles on a paper, No one wants to write on a crinkled paper, So they trash it, Each comment and word is engraved in my heart, But the papers already crinkled, There’s no straightening it so might aswell help it crumble, Each tear stains my cheek like a line on a butterfly’s wing, When I think about I’m more like a butterfly than I think, Or maybe a butterfly is more human than me