July 10, 2008
· Filed under Poetry · Tagged Figurative, Poetry, Satirical
I.
Bitter, strong, plenty
These are your own words
Served in a silver platter
Large enough to share
But better consumed by one
II.
Bitter, strong, plenty
These are your own words
Frozen but not forgotten
Religiously kept over time
But stays fresh and never expires
III
I thought hard and well
That if I let you eat your words
You’ll never be hungry a day in your life
But I was wrong
For you seem to be gaping in starvation
IV.
Bitter, strong, plenty
These are your own words
Those you spoke and now eat
And now I understand why you still starve
I’ve tasted them and known they were empty
July 7, 2008
· Filed under Photography, Poetry · Tagged deviantart, macro, Photography, Poetry
Forgive Me by ~caturs on deviantART
Busy with Work by ~caturs on deviantART
If Happiness Were a Butterfly
I used to be good at catching butterflies,
When I was a kid, they would fly around me.
I would lurch on the grass,
Until they rest unsuspecting on a near-by leaf.
They would fold their wings together,
‘Til they make themselves at my fingertips’ grasp.
I would give the butterfly a close look,
And soon enough, I would free it anyway.
That was when I was young.
Perhaps the soul of the butterfly,
Was the same soul in me.
Now older, once in a while chasing butterflies,
Still remains as my business.
But I am no longer as good as before.
It often ends up as a futile chase.
Albeit the butterflies never lost their lure,
How their wings flicker in the sunlight
Or how its colors change and glimmer.
Seems butterflies do not trust anymore.
You can see it in their restless flight.
Sometimes they would launch for the heavens,
Til they become out of reach,
Worse, out of sight.
At times, they would dance around in circles,
Until they get tired,
They would rest before one’s very eyes,
And reveal their wings’ complex design.
Too soon this happens,
To even conceive the moment,
Before one can even capture it,
The butterfly is once again,
In its restless flight.
Why has the chase always been,
After that butterfly?
Why not the bee?
Regularly visible and busy.
Why not for that encrusted bug?
Likewise glistening in the sunshine.
Why not for the fly?
Even the one eager to get near.
And sometimes, another butterfly comes along,
More vivid and beautiful,
More trusting and less suspecting,
But it fails to enrapture.
If happiness were a butterfly,
Why has it always been the one that got away?
Butterflies are an oddity of nature.
It is that by being self-defeating, by curtailing their own life as a larva, they emerge to become beautiful.
It is as if in their minute and humble existence, they knew they were born for something else.
…butterflies are ♥.
