Moths are beautiful
But their life is one of unfairness and tragedy

They are drawn to are lamps and houses
They think they are the sun
They are met with a hard surface
Over and over again

They have the wings
The patterns
The shape
But they are not what we call “pretty”
So we **** them
And let them slowly **** themselves
Which we would never do to butterflies

They are only supposed to come out at night
When it’s dark
But unfortunately
They like the light