She said no to the script,
The script of her life,
Her playing the butterfly,
With her wings being her might.

But the script the writer wrote,
Said that the butterfly’s wings had to go,
Clip them off, feed them to a bird,
But wings could not show.

And the butterfly had to die,
With her oxygen being sucked out from inside,
Trapped in a jar with no way out,
No one nearby to hear her shout.

Starved is the butterfly,
From love and laughter.
Tired is the butterfly,
From running away from what they’re after.

Slowly waiting to die,
I could hear her last innocent cry,
To warn the next actors of what is to come,
What their lies can turn out from their fun.

So she lies,
With her last breath,
A stab in the chest,
Please,
Just let her rest.