The Hobo Butterfly

I've been worried lately. I cry inside, and my smile is just above the surface of my lips. Often I'm afraid someone may see that it isn't always the genuine smile I claim it to be. I don't see me; accomplished, and I don't see failure either. I see someone who is stuck- With seemingly no way to scramble out. To wriggle free, and spread her wings.... As if emerging from inside of a coccoon. A butterfly, transformed from that of a lowly caterpillar. Yet still afraid to fly, but longing to soak up the wind blowing upon her fragile newborn wings. I wish sometimes I were a hobo. Where my only worry would be when I could hop the next train; destination unknown. No distractions. No worries. Just me and the train. Nothing but the roar of the wheels humming against the track. Vibrations coming through the steel of the rail car, into the pit of my being. My bones rumbling. My core trembling. My soul shaken. My heart, mending. My wings finally, fluttering. When that train stops: (I will) Fly away free.