CHRYSALIS

Here I am, a butterfly on the wall of an industry
That falls to the Massas religiously.
Where people reluctantly enter the doors for their daily bread,
Fed by those that don't listen to a word that is said.
They fight for an ounce of respect, to be valued,
Yet the head of the fallen does not see their worth,
Only mistakes that are worth less than their daily dues.
Views from a distance seeing the resentment,
Hearing the cry for change.
Hinged by their fellows who constantly bellow,
When will they be acknowledged and saved?
Safe to say this saddened state further states the need for space,
Where the stars can acquire their much-deserved praise.
But I am just a butterfly, pleading their case.