A Memory Made for Butterflies

A Memory Made for Butterflies
Written by John Swartz

It lingers in the room,
After you're gone,
Hanging onto the memories of my own,
My actions bring this emotion forward,
A torrent of unstable winds of change and indecision,
Murdering me deep within my core.

Your love for me hurts,
Tangling me in this state of chaos,
Of Uncertainty and regret,
Making me broken and unfixable.

At night I don't rest,
The sheets of my bed twisted and knotted,
Like the inside of my stomach,
Making me gag, frozen and forgotten,
It's hard to hold this emotion in.

A memory made for butterflies flittering away,
Unsettled by this emotional destruction,
But what is holding me together is thinking about you,
A past left in those old wooden planks,
Like ink left stained on a love letter.

I often regard those actions I have chosen as childish,
A useless action that's been destructive towards my life,
Taking me away from you – changing my life,
I long for your happiness,
Something so simple and old.

These butterfly memories erupt when I hear you,
Listening to that old voice of wisdom and age,
Changing as we get older day by day,
You sound so run down and tired,
Tired of not seeing me, tired it's been a while.

I'm starting to feel the wear and tear,
Times generous way of telling me to move on,
It's becoming difficult to hear your voice,
And to hear the disappointment within those lines,
It's becoming more difficult to lie to you,
Difficult all the time.

The distance of water and wind is grand,
But between you and me,
It's a mileage of adventure,
But a prison to my emotions.

These memories of butterflies,
They flutter within my heart,
Tearing and ripping at my walls,
These emotions making it harder for me to cry,
Making it difficult to remember the "good times".

Regretting these hurtful actions I did when I was young,
Killing the possibilities of really being father and son,
I chose something that hurts me too,
Taking me further and further from me and you,
I'm sorry old man, I'm sorry I hurt you,
I'm sorry I deserted you.

These memories of old dead butterflies,
They still live within me,
Making me live each day over again,
Making me wish the hurt would go away.

These old butterflies,
We often regret our actions too.