Butterfly skin

When we are born, there is no fair loyal distribution,
You may end up with nothing by making contribution.
The one who’s here to fly, will struggle chained to the ground,
On one’s journey nor law, nor justice can be found.

I’m a person butterfly, free but so unfortunately fragile
I’m a person black inked stain, so meaninglessly agile.
When I walk I would rather touch the winds with my silky wings
But every flap is rather just a step stuck in spider’s web strings.

The pull of threads gifts me newer pains,
Torturing the body skin, tearing apart my veins.
When I try to touch the ground or the air,
I awake the dragon’s breath out from its lair.

Butterflies in the stomach are all transformed
Into pinwheel with cutting knives absorbed.
My body skin starts to peel every time the air goes inside the lungs,
My soul vomits what was previously the black ink image with two fangs.

Some of us are weak but we are chained to the ground,
With our skin giving wounds, bruises from touch of sound.
Unfair distribution rules the Earth,
To show my soul I’m not worth.

My skin has uncured condition, it’s like soft silk,
My soul has a genetic defect, it’s like black ink.
I feel the pain follows through in every touch,
For my butterfly soul that’s too much…