I am not like a butterfly.
I am not pretty; I am not full of colors.
I do not stand out; I do not contrast against everything else.
The grayness of my wings isn’t anything.
I can’t see my own colors, perhaps they are gone.
Perhaps they weren’t even there in the first place.
My wings aren’t clipped, but nothing is holding me back except myself.
It is I who prevents me from taking off.
I am not unique; the patterns on my wings aren’t one-of-a-kind.
Of all butterflies, I especially am not a social one.
I can’t fly from place to place and fit in wherever.
I can’t mesmerize people with my beauty.
My wings aren’t clipped, but everything else in my body knows- I will not succeed if I take off,
so why even try?
I am not like a butterfly; I do not make people smile.
People are always happy to see one another, but I am just there.
I am not funny; I do not bring people joy.
I might as well be gone and no one would notice.
I am not beautiful and I can not fly.
I am not like a butterfly.