Not the first time,or the last.





Remember that time…

when you 

felt like a newly winged butterfly

just out of the cocoon

that you wanted to taste the nectar of every flower there ever was

and nothing could hold you down?

Remember how each drop of rain on your wings

felt like a taste of freedom

and the drops caught fire in your courage 

and set the ground yearning for more hope?

How each taste was so new…

as new as the first blooms in the spring

and then one day you forgot how spring tasted like?

Remember the day you tore of your wings

with a blunt sword of fear 

and watched as all their colour 

spilled in an acid rain over your dreams?

Remember how you tried to wash it all away with your tears

but your tears started detesting you

and you felt lost?

Remember how you managed to sew up the tears

with a type of stitches that you yourself 

on your own designed…

and how everybody said you were a little ragged,

and one day you perfected the art 

of holding your seams together

and your innards never felt more yours?

Just let this be a little reminder

that this is not the first time you were wrecked


the last time you got back on your own wings.



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