Cracked Butterfly
Where flame and fatal devil-reds
Are bleached by night’s demise
The quiet is as black as hate
With wings of lace and lies
You wear a cracked black butterfly
On what sickness you can’t fix
And secrets wish to drip from lips
Like candle wax from candlewicks
Cut your eyes out, Baby Doll
As the butterfly’s black wings
Spread wide and dark on Paradise
And turns toxic all these things
Then lock-down all your lullabies
And pray God you will be saved
Until the soil’s ever-settled
Upon the secret’s grave
© Jerod Scott
Because creative writing seems to have a mind of its own, it’s difficult sometimes, even for the writer, to decipher certain works. Most times, you are standing back, looking at the finished product with a first time reader’s eyes, and sometimes, wondering what the hell it was you were trying to say.
It sounds strange but each of my poems seems to have a life and personality of their own. Most are amiable and tell me their story with ease and good manners. There are exceptions to this though… and Cracked Butterfly is one of them. If this poem did have its own personality, it would be stubborn, rude, self-indulgent and distrustful. Throughout the entire process of writing this one, I had the distinct impression that the poem itself was criticizing me and that even in its rare moments of silence… it was hovering over me… just waiting for me to screw up. Also, this poem was very possessive with its voice, revealing to me only the bare minimum of monologue in tiny snippets over the course of several hours.
One theory I have about this kind of writing is that the subject matter is premature, and that it will flow more easily and clearly at a later time, under a different name… but the truth is… I really don’t know. What I do know, is that, reading this back to myself, it all sounds very crazy… and maybe it is. Or maybe, (I’m hoping!) this is a relatively normal account of the poetry writing process. ???
jsascribes 