They wont tell you the truth
Even when you ask, they’ll keep mute
They wont tell you that the road was full of thorns
And that defeat and futility battled for their turns
They wont tell you they didn’t sleep with two eyes closed
And that the nights were ice cold
That the sun burnt them, down to their bones
And at night tattoos were drawn on their bodies by mosquitoes
That there were days they were dazed by uncertainty
And nights they got by on certain teas
That there were times, time seemed to crawl
Times when they had no dime, and poverty was seamed to their shawl
No they wont tell you
That they once battled your battles
That they once tasted your failures
That they once feared your fears
And would rather yell at you
When you do too
Instead of the truth, with fiction they’ll have you fed
And when you are full, put you to bed
To wake you when the sun rises, with more disguises
They gallivant with the poise of giraffes and ostriches
Parading themselves as untouchables in their niches
The stories they wont share
Are the stories we need to hear
Stories of their path, part of which was perilous
Stories of their battle scars, not scarce of fuss
Buried beneath big boulders of condescension
Structured to make them forever feared and looked upon
Looking at the butterfly, would you believe–unless you saw it yourself–that it was once a worm? C’est la vie!
Looking at the butterfly, would you believe–unless you saw it–that it was once a worm? C’est la vie!
A butteryfly isnt born flying, with time it learnt to fly