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butterfly, butterscotch, butterfree symphony

i spend far too much time thinking of what could have been between us
heart balloons floating into the infinite beyond
or the smiles of different strangers in the park as we held hands on
wooden benches marred by years of rainfall that we pretended were not
our own tears.
perhaps the time on which we could have spent would have been marred
by a similar premise:
we met each other in a long line, waiting patiently for the next person to pass on
the day went by and we chatted up a storm -- outside the clouds had the
makings of rain.
we were infinite in scope, the subjects we had conversations about broader than the sea
until the day ended and we were forced to part ways until meeting each other
in the same line, a few days later.
from there we became an item, no longer casually bullshitting about our feelings
but it was always at twilight, clouds parting for the moonlight to peek through,
when we took our separate roads - i, the one i always took, you, the road less taken.
eventually, through the haze of cigarette smoke i heard you say that you left a long time ago, but even before that your heart had left first.
so even though i spend far too much time, you don't spend enough,
and i've written you thousands of letters over the years, all unsent
calling the inner workings of my mind - a labyrinth of self-doubt and
coffee highs - home.
i spend more time wondering if you did the same, staring out the window
in a long line where you meet another captain of sinking ship, sending me letters in which we are the moon and the sun, bonnie and clyde, all ending with the same disastrous results.

25 Apr 14

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Just to let you know, when I sit down to write, my mind is wandering, and I often write a few lines (or a dozen) before a poem really hits its stride.

Self-editing is a bitch. Tearing away parts feels like suicide sometimes, but really, most of the time after a few months I look at a poem I wrote and realize the first few lines were just kindof a warm-up, and even if they are weak, I don't want to ditch them because they remind me of where I was, and what I was feeling. But then I have to remind myself that I want a poem that reaches out and grabs the reader by the balls right away...

This poem hits its stride in line 8, swarming with accessible imagery instead of commentary. The ending is fantastic. But do reconsider line 14 "became an item" and "bullshitting".

 — mikkirat

p.s., line 15, "peek," not "peak."
 — mikkirat

ever tried scotchy scotch by ben and j? very sweet.
there are some nice lines in this. i wouldn't know what to suggest though....
 — mandolyn

Some beautiful lines in this; no, many beautiful lines.
I just think you need to edit the hell out of it, though. I think you've stated the same emotion basically over & over. Please don't think that harsh.
 — PatriciaSan

I think the title doesn't really do it justice.
 — PatriciaSan

We're all bubbles of consciousness, bubbles of brilliant shimmering hues, bouncing and bullying each other around while looking for ways to merge with each other; leaking through our surface tension, we're wiggling 'n jiggling with that 'friend' who's come to burst us free, to giggle 'til we pee, to really be whom we ought to be -- life is real only then when I am bursting at the seams of what I thought reality means ...

the voice-over is authentik and there are many charms to be had in the read -- edit or not as you need ...
 — AlchemiA

post-scriptum: love the title

◄⊱❢⊰Ⓐ it's all in the delight in your eyes Ⓜ⊱❢⊰►
 — AlchemiA

when your wonder turns to awe then your eyes will glitter with the beauty that you saw
 — AlchemiA

did you redo this one? because that mandolyn who commented up there was a dummy.

this is top-notch scotch with extra butter! :)
 — mandolyn

Nope, this is the same poem you commented on all those ages ago, Mandy. :)
 — ARedLetter

then i was a numskull
 — mandolyn

I won't argue with you there ;)
Just kidding. Opinions change! No worries. :)
 — ARedLetter

Some people don't know how to read.
 — OldShoe