If we are like ants, will you stop stomping on us?
Are we rodents, is that why you use us?
If we turn into butterflies will you let us fly away
can we be birds instead and escape our cages?
We are unique, you say we are just a few
are you overestimating our value
our skin we outgrew
can we be rescued?
Our hearts are filled with rage
our sculpture of clay, time turned grey
you say that you cannot count us,
or is it count on us?
When is enough going to be enough
who do we turn to now that it’s rough?
Ourselves, our friends? I wish I had any
are we allowed to be alive, or can we just be dark and cloudy?