I just want to sit right here and cry
I just want the tears to come, and not these butterflies
I ask myself why?

Why do I feel how I feel when I’m with you?
Why do I lose control and not say what I want to you?
How do I do this thing we call love with you?
I’ve lost control, because there’s only one loving two.

The mountains are tall, and I’m just too small.
To climb to the top of the weight on my chest.
I used to wear these scars like a crest,
But I’m not proud enough of this love to show it.

I want the moment to last a little longer,
When I’m in your arms I only feel stronger,
A hug lasts for seconds, but in ten seconds we’re older.
But i hide from my heart, grow only the bolder.

Butterflies they float around, before and then after.
Inside I feel a deafening laughter.
Why can’t I pull away from your gravity,
Dead butterflies inside are leaving this cavity.

A space filled with the tears from my eyes,
A space inside where my heart often cries.
Trying to wash away the pain of loving you.
Moving on is just what I want to do.



Want vs Sense; Sense vs Butterflies 

Want vs Sense; Sense vs Butterflies 

I know what this feeling is. Letting go.
I’ve felt it before. This inner struggle of want and sense.
Your heavy heart fighting the butterflies in your stomach.
That heavy heart overflowing with the tears you wish you could weep.
But you just don’t have the strength to cry.

I wish those butterflies would drown.
As morbid as that thought may be.
Because if they were gone, my heavy heart would have nothing to dampen.
And perhaps then I could go on to someone new.

Even if they flew away, far away.
Or even close enough to catch them.
Label the jar “fragile do not touch.”
Or “Harmful and Hazardous: Avoid contact with heart.”

I wish I didn’t have them but they’re the closest thing I have to you.
Maybe that’s why I’m holding on.
I just don’t want to let you go.
So I stand there, holding back the tears.
Not because I’m scared to cry, but to prevent them drowning butterflies.

Sense tells me to move on. Time and time again.
Long before my misery.
Do I listen?
Do I fuck.
But I knew it was there, and you’d think that would prepare you for an emotional suicide. But no.
Note to self, “butterflies kick senses butt. Get rid of butterflies.”

“In my dreams.”
What we say when something can’t be true.
It must be why when I’m in my dreams I’m with you.
We can’t happen. Not only because I don’t want it to, but because- well.
That would be more than just a silly poem.

I wish I could cry. Crying might get it out.
But all I can muster is tears in my eyes.
Which sting as I walk through the cold night air.
Wandering aimlessly, looking at the stars in the sky.
Hoping that at least some of them spell out goodbye.
Because that word just doesn’t seem to exist.

And why? Why? Why?
I ask over and over.
Why do you do this to yourself? Time and again.
Butterflies. Butterflies is why.
I wish sometimes there was no such thing as love.
No searching, no hoping, no believing it’s out there.
No attachment, no hurting, no drowning butterflies.

Because love and butterflies are one and the same.
They start of small and grow larger.
They’re both colourful and wild.
They’re fragile when you have them.
And too often they just fly away.
Who knew eh?
Sense did.
Did I listen?
Did I fuck.

I just wanted you to hold me. Still do.
Always the person you can’t have, always the one you need more than anyone.
And I just want to let them go.
Just watch them fly, float on by.
For the sake of a crappy rhyme.
Because I just don’t have the time.
Because my diary is full of butterflies.

Fucking butterflies.

Davie Magill