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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() There is a fear of never doing worthwhile It scurries over weeds on old railroad tracks And it lies in drips and drops and splatters on newspaper stacks There is a fear that wafts in small fragments against dark alleyways And bridges, cracked and caked with rust It peeks its small maw through desires bathed in dust It grows like black ivy through shriek graffitied-halls And trickles merrily down the surface of aching limestones walls It slips down old concrete pillars and pools underneath shadows It swarms in fitful storms of silence through cracked brown paper covered windows It is the whisper that caresses the tops of old boarded up factories
And howls madly while you scream “Won’t someone notice me?” Since you were on a rundown playground, the fear that you feel It makes you break a butterfly against a wheel There is a fear that stings as the night wind laughs in mocking tones So sweat away another hour as the floorboard creaks and groans Wake up, and break the butterfly, or else I’ll be a failure The scythe is waiting at the horizon’s edge, Break myself before I get there For the wheel that keeps on turning me The work that I am chained to Picking up wing and pencil shavings Off the ground, so much to cling to I feel I must break the butterfly, or kill the the lightning beast inside, I’ll be buried in an unmarked grave under rubble gardens of grime There is a fear that bleeds from fingers beginning to erode And it’s pooling in a pothole on a ramshackle road In love with a desire that cuts like fire to win some imaginary game And to scale all the mountains placed upon your name Addicted to the sun beam, crumbling through steel Everyday, the children of decay will break their butterflies against a wheel There is the joy of just feasting on the fruits of life To be content with a meaning I’ve carved out of dead yesterday’s bones No matter what I do, my deeds will fossilize on eternal mornings made of stone And we will twist the knots in our stomachs into climbing rope Scale the skies, in my own time, or just be free to cope There is so much left to break So much left to do and be I will savor every mistake Every butterfly I break, Every wheel I make Everything that’s gold to me Comments are closed.
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* = Editors' Choice work
Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
October 2023
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