Butterflies.
Fluttering through the city, the countryside,
Doing butterfly things.
But not me,
I’ve often thought,
That I’ve grown up to be a moth.
And sometimes I feel,
That moths aren’t meant to do butterfly things.
Butterflies fill the world with colour and energy,
I have usually preferred the dark.
Everyone seems to think butterflies beautiful,
While moths are forgettable.
I wanted that for a long time,
Sometimes want it still,
To be forgettable.
As the seasons of life come and go,
New perspective is gained.
Old beliefs are challenged,
New doorways appear.
Maybe butterflies and moths,
Share more similarities than differences.
And most importantly,
They both have the ability to fly.
And it could very well be true,
That moths are beautiful too.
The beauty that you see, or the beauty that you don’t, greatly depends on how you view yourself. This may be my greatest struggle through the years. But I am amazed at the fact that no matter how many lows I find, and how far my self-esteem falls, It isn’t too late and I am not too far gone to improve in this area. Either humans must have an enormous capacity for healing, or I’ve stumbled into a field of four-leaf clover.
Maybe.
Maybe your smile defines you,
More than your scars.
Maybe the past is only a tool,
Not a predictor.
And just because you didn’t,
Doesn’t mean that you can’t.
Just because you haven’t yet,
Doesn’t mean that you won’t.
One page doesn’t define a chapter,
And a chapter doesn’t define a book.
Trust your wings.
Boldly Bipolar 