Found this in an old journal from a while back ha

Swallowed whole by fear
Flap my wings and die
Fly with me my dear
To a place where we can cry

Hear my bittersweet melody
Stained by your soft touch
My butterfly weeps silently
Yet still it won't help much

Just let me numb your silence
Weep with me out loud
I'll hold on to you forever
I'll notice you in crowds

And when you think I'll leave you
I hope you'll hear my voice
I'm not here to deceive you
For this was my own choice

An excerpt from a piece I'm currently working on and probably will be for a very long time.

Place me in a box and ship me to future. You claim to know each freckle on my forehead, each scar placed somewhere special on my body. Do you know each scar? Each freckle? My pupils tend to deceive me sometimes. So if you know each scar and freckle, each tilt of my brow, every crease of my timid smile, then why do you still stand tall in front of my body? You stand planted like an appalachian boulder with weathered edges and a beautiful physique. You won’t move. You like this place in the ground where you cover the earth with imagination. Right in front of me. Boulders can be moved, can they not? I can break you from the solidified sanctuary which you rest upon. So I grab my shovel. I attempt to pierce the familiarity of your loneliness and shoot my beloved reason into your veins that change with the season. Are you an icicle or are you snowflake? Are you a puddle or are you a great lake? I am lucky I found you. I love every brick and every cloud that floats through the arteries of your emotion. I love every leaf that lies dormant and crying in the pit of your stomach. I’m not sure I know how to use a shovel. I am used to gardening in the youthful sense. Your arboretum is flooding my childhood garden once full of carrots and cucumbers. I need a bigger shovel to match the moonlight before me. I want to plant a seed in the basement of your bones. There are places on my skin begging for you to play me like a baby grand piano. Hold me. My heart beats deep beneath the shadows of your agony. Hold me. I find a shovel worthy of this beautiful boulder surrounded by broken records. I will glue them back together. You tell me the soil beneath your imagination is fragile. I dig deep beneath you. I thought you needed to be moved from your place in the ground. I thought you would see me if only I could move you. Hold me. My shovel is useless so I make use of my hands. I dig towards your sanctuary with intention. Listen to the vibration of my vocal chords when I tell you I love you. The dirt beneath my broken fingernails screams for the oxygen entering your lungs. The soil is dry and concrete, yet my fingers pry further towards the ambiguity lying behind your curls. I can feel it. The soil is softening. I come to a hole beneath the habitat of your imagination. It is dark and empty, almost as if it is crying for a seed of truth. Do I use the hole to boost you from your hard place? No. I plant the seed of my truth to sustain you and watch you grow. The truth of my love for you. My love for you like a tidal wave; like an newborn child taking his first step to the rest of his life. And there it infinitely stays. The truth of my love permeates the soil surrounding your boulder. It fertilizes what has yet to grow around your reality. As time passes a stem peaks through the soil and sees the light of day for the first time. This is no ordinary stem. This sprouts into the most beautiful thing any being has ever laid eye upon. It is fertilized by something not even I can wholly grasp with my imagination. The stem withstands every storm and every precarious footprint . Finally, leaves begin to open their eyes.