Butterflies are beautiful,
Scorpions are deadly.
The only thing is—
They\'re both equally scared.
But what is a butterfly without its wings?
What is a scorpion without its sting?
They’re not beautiful anymore,
not deadly anymore—
just scared little bugs in the trees.
One chooses to fly away,
one chooses to fight back.
But what are they without their wings or sting?
No soaring through the endless sky,
no striking back—
because this time,
they’ll both just die.
So maybe beauty and danger
are just masks they wear.
Both trembling underneath the moonlight,
pretending not to care.
Maybe we’re the same—
trying to show that we’re strong.
Hiding broken wings,
pretending we belong.
Because when the wings are torn,
and the stingers are gone,
we’re all little bugs,
just trying to hold on.