They're in there.
Flitting around
on cottony wings.
Each one
flapping a soft
tornado.
An entemologist
would love them.
Stick them in tiny
ball jars.
Perhaps pin a few
to a corkboard.
Peel back layers
and demystify their
flurry of anxiety.
I just wish that they'd
fly away from me.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
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2 comments:
butterflies in my stomach.
I have this stupid evaluation that I get to obsess about until Tuesday night. They get me everytime.
I like the second stanza best here. Using anxiety to describe the butterfly's fluttering is perfect and fits with the metaphor here. The last stanza brings it all together. I've gone through eight years of reviews. You got nothing to worry about.
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