this poem is water;
an open letter
to the fellow blue butterflies
that fly on my head.
it’s a letter; a poem
that soliloquizes, &
reads the notes on our grief.
dear fellow chained blue butterflies,
i read in the book
written by the fingers
of our grandfathers
that all the boys
in our city were meant
to write memoirs;
memoirs on how they
enjoyed the wind
of our fatherland. but here
we’re, reading the red notes
that resemble my father’s blood.
& i asked the standing moon
of our galvanized homes. i asked
the gallivanting sun on the men
who swallowed our land. all silent,
afraid of being taken by rough
men. & the fearless stars
escaped the imminent sky
and said motherland’s eaten
by the men we hanker to
have our heads touched
by their cruel hands.
dear pained fellow blue butterflies,
it’s now the beginning of the end;
the drum’s to be beaten, again.
remember, it’s our fingerprints
that can give them another breath
that might rain on us acid rain, again.




Photo by Lucas Alves from Pexels