Butterflies dont live in my garden.
Flowers dont grow here.
My sun shivers behind clouds of doubt that dances to a tattered song of caution in the wind.
My skies drip slowly ,and only when i swallow my pride.
This thought me that you could never hug the rain.
You only end up soaking wet and by your self.
You see butterflies dont live in my garden.
The only thing that i can seem to stomach is a belly full of imagination, stapled to the thought of you.
Flowers dont grow here.
The good soil isnt rich.
The word possible.
Fell to the way side, thumbled through torns, sandpapered on stones, and landed on the edge of a parrabel that i dont understand.
Darling they dont live in my garden.
But i rise inches of the ground to the sound of your voice. Floating on a prayer that you might one day let me live in yours.

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