To be praised for the Butterflies you caught with broken nails.

I bite into success with bloodied teeth; the fruit of such gain is always hard to bear.

The pink lines stream down my parched mouth

Pink.

Red.

An art drawn with a covetous heart.

Today, we wake up again

In search for the forbidden calm in success

Today, we wake up again

Tuning into monsters in our forever pursuit of that sweet taste.

Greed is a weapon as much as you wield it

If the goals blur under your wide-open mouth

The teeth will sink into something more fragile than fruit

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More aching, less sweet.

The collar your greed wears leaves its marks on your neck

Each craning you give into bites into your skin

The collar your greed wears is yours to hurt.

The itchy, scabbing flesh, and the salty tears running down the reddened proof

Anyone would know, just by looking at you, how much you let your greed consume you

A slave to a weapon, a willing cavity to all it brings

Swallowing the desired and the contempted

Taste muffled by the snarling hunger in a bottomless pit.

The cheers are deafening in your ears when you tear the soft tissues of your own

The stage is open and bright when you exchange them for what’s more durable in life

You have always been weak, your heartache displayed in shaking eyes

A spectacle worthy of marveling when you raise your hands with butterflies grasped

They were always colorful, you were always shaking

And the ironies in life were always caught.

Good job, child.

You have exchanged your weakness for strength

Good job, child.

Your greed is only ever an honorable thing.

Wipe your tears, steady your hands, go up another stage, and careful of the yank of chains

Smile proudly, widely, and push the butterflies in front of their eyes

Listen quietly, attentively, and bury your wish to die.