Butterfly upon my hand, A voice of wonder within my mind, not my own but the butterfly's.

Every bloody mark had assassinated my writing along the way.

My nerves did a jitter dance,

I assumed this yoke would encase me as well as any another hobble. Only this one bound the mind.

Tongue and hand tied, I was equally cut off and trapped in my own silent dark tomb.

Real women don't love the richest guy in the world they love the guy who can make their world the richest.