Break a Butterfly on the Back of a Wheel by Benjamin Epstein (17, California)

​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

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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