Sometimes hope flies away on ghostly butterfly wings, which have been crushed multiple times.
I want to fly away with hope.
To cocoon myself until it's safe to wake up
And be who I really am.
But I don't think that will ever happen.
Eveyone likes clowns.
No one likes the freak behind the mask.
Share your stuff here if you want. It's a writing game by a fellow by the name of G Man, and he does it every Friday.
Cross-posted to:
Note:
I don't really want to come off as an asshole to people who may be "meeting" me for the first time, but the first one who tells me I "need to be on meds" needs to go jump off a cliff. I've been bipolar probably since I was 10 years old, though I wasn't diagnosed until I was 38. I don't need any armchair psychologists trying to analyze me when I'm expressing myself during what happens to be a drop on the mood disorder roller coaster, thank you very much.
To those who might have appreciated the work, sorry for the defensiveness. It's something that I've unfortunately become rather accustomed to.
