‏‏‎Mountains, soothing sounds of running water in the streams,

A beautiful bed, a passionate night, and good dreams.

A breathtaking vista so much to see, to live for.

Life isn’t dark, I’m letting the light in a little bit more.

I walk down a slope, trees brush my arms oh so gently,

I see a magical being, as I reach for my phone.

Its wings flutter slowly, elegantly.

A beautiful butterfly sits near me alone.

It’s symbolic; its life force early on so caged.

I see a wing, damaged, a battle must have been waged.

A while back its cocoon broke, beauty was freed.

A story it has, like a tree, from a seed.

I see something more now, a storm.

I am in my room on the 14th floor. 

Outside the window, clouds are beginning to form.

That Butterfly, once a caterpillar, a worm.

Will I transform? Or am I too dirty to form?

Will I get up from that floor?

Knuckles bruised, Déjà vu I am thirty, too torn?

I’ve done it again a few times more.

My throat hurts again, the familiar voice won.

I am that worm, not that butterfly I see.

Still so much is held deep within me,

My wings, my story, I cannot escape how it chains me.

That butterfly perched by a building’s old wall.

Its wing flutters, damaged, but still beautiful. 

Defeated, for now, I rise from the wet floor.

Storm inside rages, as I walk through the door.

I’m ready to tell my story my shame, I don’t care anymore.

I’m dirty, damaged, scared, but I have to learn to forgive.

The butterfly was strong, it was bold it lived.

My turn to transform, to break the mold, to give.