The beautiful butterfly always remembers
that it was a caterpillar once,

That coarse skin and bland hue
made way for soft texture and rainbow blue,

Before the pretty kaleidoscope patterns
were patches of green and specks of black like gangrene,

Not a sight for sore eyes, not so sweet, not so nice,

It lay trapped within a willing cell,
waiting to emerge from the cocoon as the renewed better self,

So it may fly high but it always looks down below,
never forgetting where it came from, no matter where it goes,

Yet the scars it had shall never really heal,
They always lie throbbing beneath the surface of the flawless skin