Reflections

by Elizabeth Lyulkin

Don't call me a butterfly.
A butterly cannot flutter
At the very edge of the flame
Without getting burned.

I can.

Don't call me a flower.
Flowers don't grow
In a space totally devoid of sunlight,
In this airless, arid place.

I do.

Don't call me a river.
A river would not think of going
Over a wire studded wall
In the dead of night
For a hungry breath of fresh air.

I would.

Elizabeth Lyulkin is a member of our Bipolar Disorder community, and originally posted this poem on our Forum.