I wrote this poem when I was hospitalized a few years ago. I thought maybe some of you would be encouraged by the words to feel like you're not alone. I am bipolar and have borderline personality disorder.
-Lynne
"I am a Butterfly"
I am a butterfly.
My day is now, but I cannot capture it.
For my wings are tattered and broken.
Children, playing in the meadow that is my home, keep spotting me.
The flash of color, the movement, the delicacy of my frame fascinates them.
Before I know it, the flower I am resting on, gaining nourishment from, has vanished from my sight.
Clear walls surround me.
I see the blue sky beyond, beckoning me.
But everywhere I go I hit a wall.
The wall is clear, and it seems only I can see it.
Since it is clear, and the beautiful outdoors seems so close, I crash again and again, longing for my former freedom.
Finally the wall disappears, only to be replaced by a new set of walls.
It doesn't matter; a wall is a wall.
The more walls, the more accidents, the more times I fall.
I love the children's attention but I wish they would let me fly free.
They watch me, fascinated with my hypnotic colors, shapes and form.
But this love, this love they give me, it is suffocating me.
As a person cannot live long in a jail cell and still retain their color and spirit, so I must be let out, so that I can try to fly as I am, tattered and hurt may I be.
By protecting me, they are defeating me.
For I am not a dangerous glass-jar butterfly.
I cannot be. Such a thing does not exist.
Butterflies are not dangerous, as it is contrary to their very nature and spirit to be dangerous.
And I am not a snake disguised as a butterfly.
I am simply a butterfly, and I belong in the garden of life.
-Lynne
"I am a Butterfly"
I am a butterfly.
My day is now, but I cannot capture it.
For my wings are tattered and broken.
Children, playing in the meadow that is my home, keep spotting me.
The flash of color, the movement, the delicacy of my frame fascinates them.
Before I know it, the flower I am resting on, gaining nourishment from, has vanished from my sight.
Clear walls surround me.
I see the blue sky beyond, beckoning me.
But everywhere I go I hit a wall.
The wall is clear, and it seems only I can see it.
Since it is clear, and the beautiful outdoors seems so close, I crash again and again, longing for my former freedom.
Finally the wall disappears, only to be replaced by a new set of walls.
It doesn't matter; a wall is a wall.
The more walls, the more accidents, the more times I fall.
I love the children's attention but I wish they would let me fly free.
They watch me, fascinated with my hypnotic colors, shapes and form.
But this love, this love they give me, it is suffocating me.
As a person cannot live long in a jail cell and still retain their color and spirit, so I must be let out, so that I can try to fly as I am, tattered and hurt may I be.
By protecting me, they are defeating me.
For I am not a dangerous glass-jar butterfly.
I cannot be. Such a thing does not exist.
Butterflies are not dangerous, as it is contrary to their very nature and spirit to be dangerous.
And I am not a snake disguised as a butterfly.
I am simply a butterfly, and I belong in the garden of life.
