While I fly above the earth,
Catch me by my wings,
Take me back to the prison,
And not let me see all of the things.
Justify to me,
Tell me please,
Those skies are not right,
Those wings are a disease.
Cut my wings with sharp words,
Your little knife is too little to kill,
Then praise my perfection of accepting –
“Being myself is being mentally ill.”
Burn me with the plastic sticks,
Nothing more my manipulated soul would need,
Let my plastic ashes reluctantly take pride,
On the ideas that your false souls feed.