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.