Julia Hill Poet Personification

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.

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