Butterflies begin,
from having been a larva,
As a child is born,
from being in a mother's womb,
But how many times,
have you wished you were some other;
Someone than who you are.
Yet who's to say that if all were uncovered,
You will like what you see;
You can only be you,
as I can only be me.
Flowers can not bloom,
until it is their season,
As we would not be here,
unless it was our destiny,
But how many times,
have you wished to be in spaces,
Times, places than what you were.
Yet who's to say with unfamiliar faces,
You could any more be;
Loving you that you'd see,
You can only be you,
as I can only be me.
