Mute

Why do I feel, the way I'm not
like a butterfly moving backwards in time,
seeking the comfort of the cocoon,
seemingly becoming a caterpillar again
hiding behind leaves of despair.
Why do I think, the way I don't
when my heart's all bruised,
and the pictures on the walls get blurred
as a single tear falls unnoticed
amid the noise of my pain.
Why do I say, the words I don't
as I watch you from afar, and
shush the clamoring inside,
as the spirit longs to reach out
and just caresses your face...
Alas the dreams
are all the same
fairy tale endings
that never quite seem
to ring true.