You spin each thing I say,

Into smoke and lies,

A spell that I can’t shake,

You are a devil in disguise,


No one else sees the drip-feed,

Of doubt you circulate between my ears,

I can’t help but feel insane,

When that’s how I appear.


I drew a butterfly on my wrist,

In hope that this feeling would no longer persist.

But things got bad and I started to cry

So the butterfly on my wrist, it had to die.


Once again I tried to set myself free

But it seemed my thoughts had stolen the key.

So this butterfly lived a very short life

Killed with fear and a very sharp knife.


To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.