I wish I could master the art of speaking.

I have so many things I want to say, but

they are enclosed in cocoons, that hang in the

back of my mind.

Where the hell are my butterflies?

I guess somewhere along the twisting road of my life

I figured, It's better to leave no impression than to leave a bad

impression.

And that's what I've been doing.

But I can't go forever with my mouth locked shut.

My words, running wild and unkempt, behind my lips,

inside my head.

Can caterpillars turn to butterflies already?

How much more do I have to grow before I can hold up a

conversation?

How much longer can I take the feeling of words crawling on my

tongue?

How many more of them will catch the virus of anxiety

and fall dead before they leave my mouth?

I, naturally, will return to my shadows after each defeat.

Maybe it's better if I don't reach the butterflies.

After all, you can't break your wings if you don't have any...