Child: Butterfly Butterfly…what color do you have..
Butterfly: What color do you want?
Child: I want the colors of rainbow..
Butterfly: Yes, please pick the colors and make your rain bow,,
Child:But, for that i need to take your wings.
Butterfly: Anyways, i will die within few days…Plz do it after my death
Child:After the death of the buterfly will keep the wings as is..Just in memory of the butterfly
Princess
Used as an example of beauty and fragility, one quality enhancing the other.
The butterfly fluttered above my head menacingly, it;s wings just grazing the top of my head. Everyone looked at it mesmerized, being taken over by it’s mind controlling alien beauty. I shivered in fear that it would land on me, staying utterly still while doing so.
blue
I am as fragile as a butterfly, a butterfly that has its wing caught in the net you call your love. You are my predator.
you were bright
when the stars were too cold to hold our hopes
you were there
when the trees twisted into screams
when the sun fell from the sky
you were there
blinking back and forth with wings stitched from our hopes.
The butterfly floats freely among the horizon. Flying gently and peacefully. The butterfly has no weight on it’s wings, I wonder. The butterfly goes on without rhyme or reason. Perhaps the butterfly is what we strive to be.
Amanda
The butterfly is a wonderful insect and is very pretty. they are attracted to catnip like cats, though the word is a very dangerous place for the butterfly, they somehow survive. us humans are giants and are very loud to them. we cant hear them but they can make a noise.
angel
One time, a long time ago, I was standing in the window of a Fifth Avenue office building, somewhere up on the 8th or 9th floor. It was such a long time ago, I can’t remember which floor it was. I was watching the Pope, John Paul II at the time, go past in a parade. There were thousands of people on the streets, waving and cheering at him. I was standing in the window with a woman named Anita who was Jewish and didn’t quite understand the spectacle; I thought I wouldn’t either if I wasn’t a Catholic. When you think about it, that’s a lot of power that a man has. For me, he represented Christ here on Earth, even though he was riding in a car that must’ve cost who knows how much and surrounded by a force of body guards, none of which he probably wanted. Anyway, I was watching from this perfect position, when out of nowhere, this butterfly came flying into the window. A butterfly on Fifth Avenue in NY in the middle of a huge parade and all that noise. It fluttered in the window, and just like that, landed right on my left shoulder. A beautiful orange and black Monarch butterfly. I knew this because I looked it up afterwards. And when I looked that up, I found out that the butterfly is a symbol in Christianity. I think that made me believe that there’s a God and he’s watching over me. Not because of me. But because of my grandmother, who prayed hard for her whole family, including the non-believers. And there were plenty of those.
ruby
Butterfly’s are made out of butts that fly and fart. Which is dangerous. It can kill the butterflies that are flying behind it.
Mystery Girl
A butterfly is made up of two sticks of butter…that fly.
Julianne Engel
I’ve always liked butterflies, they’ve meant something, symbolically, to me, for a very long time. Not only have I always associated them with women, I’ve associated them with my girlfriend, and later wife. I will always think of her as the dedicated little nectar-gatherer, a fragile little thing on beautiful wings.
Nick
I used to think butterflies were scary. Their eyes were so big and that little curly thing (that I never knew the name of) looked like it wanted to suck fluid out of me if given the chance. I always tried to catch them, though, and conquer my fear of something so delicate and harmless.
a butterfly flew away from the flower, flapping its wings in the breeze. The bee was nearby, watching it fly away with an envious eye, as the colorful wings danced in the wind.
thil
Butterflies are insects in the macrolepidopteran clade Rhopalocera from the order Lepidoptera, which also includes moths. Adult butterflies have large, often brightly coloured wings, and conspicuous, fluttering flight.
G'Ameka
The blue morpho is my favorite butterfly because the color of its wings.the upperside of the wings are a pretty blue. the underside of its wings are brown. To know more about this beautiful insect, look it up.
Jada Engel
A species.
Adrian
I never wanted to be like this, and I’m not sure where it went wrong. I remember wanted to be a fireman or an astronaut as a kid. To do something meaningful. Meanwhile, I’m sitting where with this stack of accounting forms, falling asleep as the numbers all blur into one. What happened? Is it too late for me? I pause. I stand up, look at the endless field of desks in front of me. No, I won’t be them, not anymore. I cup my hands on either side of my mouth, face my boss’s office, and scream: “I quit!”
Sometimes I wish I was a butterfly. A butterfly that could fly away. Away from all my problems, anxiety, depression, stress, and even people. A butterfly that could metamorphosis and forever be changed into something beautiful, loved, and admired.
Nimthirial
My one true love
She has always been my butterfly
Gliding around my senses
Taking my attention
Filling the sky with love
Today, my heart had wings for two seconds, and I had the faint feeling of may-be-we-could-be, this hopeful yet absolutely hopeless hope. I thought for 2 seconds about him. But I know I am the dull craters while he is the moon. I am nothing in comparison. And my heart became still again.
As a little girl, she used to go with her grandmother to the butterfly house outside the city, where she’d ooh and ahh and giggle over the brightly colored insects. She was told every year how they grew and hatched, but the explanation never seemed to stick.
All that mattered was that they were alive and beautiful and free – and she wanted to be that way, too,
I can’t believe this one word popped up. When I see butterflies I truly believe it’s Ma and Dad coming down to visit me. I never believed in anything like that while they were alive but the moment I saw them shortly after they died, I knew it was them.
The wings unfolded from the primordial slime; stringy stretching gelatin; the broad, colorful paddles promised flight.
ml
It was a sunny afternoon in march. The last snow had fallen and was about to melt away for good. Daylight stayed longer every day. A butterfly was bathing in the sun on the balcony. The first sign of spring. This long, cold ass winter was over. Finally.
And even though a bird ate the beautiful insect an hour later, life still felt pretty good.
Even if the butterfly didn’t get so see another day, the bird wasn’t hungry anymore.
She watched the monarch lazily land on the flower, opening and closing its wings almost apathetically. The air was heavy around and even as she laid in the grass she felt no coolness from the ground. Everything felt sweaty and hot. She tried to keep her eyes open.
The delicate butterfly flew right past my face, as if beckoning me to follow her. Entranced, I slowly walked out, and followed her, as she led me to a meadow filled with flowers. Then, I was amazed to see the butterfly settle down, and transform.
Butterfly. Butterfly is so much of nature. Its in sync with the nature & its goodness. Colorful & lively.
Children’s often gets amused by the variety of colors.
vishakha R C
“We passed your family its sword,” anyone watching would have seen his eyes frantically searching for the source of this voice, tracing some formless path through the air, trying to catch ripples in a pond, “and it gave you glory.” Anyone watching would have seen his eyes stop, locked on a single position in the void behind his face, a dim light in the dark fluttering aimlessly about. Anyone watching would’ve seen him break into a feverish sweat, as though the dim light he was chasing through some darkness beat on him like the relentless August sun. “You have feasted,” each word let out into his shapeless world with a small burst of light, “but you have sewn nothing but death, reaped nothing but souls.” Some dull cries arched over an unseeable horizon. “We passed your family its sword, Kiyomori, and you have grown mighty – but only from resting so long in Darkness. He who grows from death, becomes it.” The thousand screams now transcended the border of his mind into reality, his eyes bursting open, begging for air to quell the fire in his head.
Anyone watching would have seen him fly out of bed, like a cicada on its only day under the sun, but just as a cicada might fall before letting its wings rest, he fell, to his knees, on the veranda. Anyone watching would’ve seen the terror cross his face, but only he could see the shapes twisting from the snow, and hear the terrible, helpless screams that echoed outward from their hollow skulls: the bones of all those he and his men had killed in nameless battles for such silly worldly desires – titles, honor, rice, land, reputation – came wrenching outward from the winter snow. He instinctively grabbed the sword at his side, as his family name dictated he would, but he stood in reserved awe, refusing to moved to fear by such visions.
Yes, anyone watching would have seen a cicada, colorless as the snow in the garden, fallen to the ground, struggling to pick itself up with soft, scaleless wings.
Yes, anyone watching would have seen the crest embroidered on his clothes, burning brighter than the fever within him, a reminder of the family who boasted it as a symbol of change and metamorphosis – and with equal zealotry denying to recognize its birthplace in darkness.
Butter fliegt. In meinem Traum war es, als würde Butter fliegen können. Der Taxifahrer wollte kein Geld. Der Kühlschrank war ziemlich voll. Wo kommt das Glas mit dem Kefir her? Wer hat es dort abgestellt und nicht mitgenommen? Sollte tatsächlich ich das gewesen sein? Mein ich von vor 5 oder 7 Jahren?
Her hands gripped and traced the rim of the toilet seat. Purging poison might be a release, if it didn’t force you to taste it twice. Instead her mistakes floated in front of her eyes, and when she closed them, her head swirled along in the same pattern. It fluttered down the hall, though the drunken voices, into a small room, back in time. Her hand patting his right shoulder, the last touch lasting two, maybe three seconds too long as she let her hand trail off slowly. She felt his eyes on her and looked up to meet them; it was like being struck dead. She looked away as quickly as a corpse’s reaction time could allow, and saw the bottles and cans in disarray, some on their sides completely, littering the table; her sharp eyes now barely able to recognize the blurry shapes.
She felt something touch her back—a wall? Had she been backing up? Using it for support, she slid to her knees, letting the feeling of safety erase the reality that it’s always more dangerous closer to the ground. She had cornered herself, but the design on the floor was gentle on the eyes. She saw a shadow grow only to recede when music began to reverberate through the room. A sad, slow song. A sad, deep voice. It was safe to look up—his eyes were captured by something bright, drawing him in. Hypnotizing to be, hypnotizing to watch. A musical intermission, brain too slow to recognize what it meant, led to their eyes meeting once again. How does it always start with something so trivial?
The sound of a mic hitting the table, the feel of a hand reaching from earlobe to chin, gently but sternly pushing it up, as if aware of the time limit placed upon thoughtless bliss. She thought the warning line around her was as effective as an electric fence, but it was gone with his outstretched arms. It was smudged away with a joining of lips, purple in the dim light, that touch and pull away as quick and as soft as a bat of eyelashes on a cheek. An emptiness in a shivering body with no other way to be filled but this. Freedom and escape being plucked from their backs. Innocence caught in the sticky web of the floor pattern. Stumbling out of arms, flittering down the hallway. The taste of something dark so familiar it might bring about the end of her.
The last chord of the piano reverberating in the sudden distance in between them.
The insect fluttered in the strong wind, struggling to make headway. The wind picked up sharply, and the small creature was tossed against a rough tree. As Elaine walked by, she saw the butterfly trapped against the hard surface, fighting to be free, and she was overcome with a strong but undefinable emotion.
Liam McCoy
Butterfly is the queen of colors.She adorns all colors on her so gracefully.So perfect andso pretty..I think its one of Gods beautiful creations.
Princess
This reminds me of the song by Crazy town. I was so in love with a girl and this song reminded me of her. I still think about her 10+ years later. I’m not in love with her anymore, but I hope she is doing alright.
The butterfly was confused, a lot like me, the viewer. It was just simply all over the place, then it settled. And something happened to it, and me. It was a silent beauty, and I was the only human to witness it. Is that luck?
I felt the colors of my skin flake away, like the fragile neon patterns of a butterfly’s wings, scraped off by God’s invisible blade as He attempted to cleanse the artistic palette. All at once, I was falling – pitching forward, chin making contact with the marble floor, though no pain reverberated from my jaw to my nose. I simply lay there, as my muscles contracted. As my bones shrunk. As my entire body metamorphosed.
Child: Butterfly Butterfly…what color do you have..
Butterfly: What color do you want?
Child: I want the colors of rainbow..
Butterfly: Yes, please pick the colors and make your rain bow,,
Child:But, for that i need to take your wings.
Butterfly: Anyways, i will die within few days…Plz do it after my death
Child:After the death of the buterfly will keep the wings as is..Just in memory of the butterfly
Used as an example of beauty and fragility, one quality enhancing the other.
The Butterfly flew
the butterfly danced
the butterfly knew
this was his last chance
Oh heck I really like butterflies. The are honestly lovely creatures and the fap flap flap and only eat like,, fruits unlike moths,, moths are weird
you were my butterfly, with you I was free. with you I did not think about them. or myself it was only you, my butterfly.
The butterfly fluttered above my head menacingly, it;s wings just grazing the top of my head. Everyone looked at it mesmerized, being taken over by it’s mind controlling alien beauty. I shivered in fear that it would land on me, staying utterly still while doing so.
I am as fragile as a butterfly, a butterfly that has its wing caught in the net you call your love. You are my predator.
you were bright
when the stars were too cold to hold our hopes
you were there
when the trees twisted into screams
when the sun fell from the sky
you were there
blinking back and forth with wings stitched from our hopes.
The butterfly floats freely among the horizon. Flying gently and peacefully. The butterfly has no weight on it’s wings, I wonder. The butterfly goes on without rhyme or reason. Perhaps the butterfly is what we strive to be.
The butterfly is a wonderful insect and is very pretty. they are attracted to catnip like cats, though the word is a very dangerous place for the butterfly, they somehow survive. us humans are giants and are very loud to them. we cant hear them but they can make a noise.
One time, a long time ago, I was standing in the window of a Fifth Avenue office building, somewhere up on the 8th or 9th floor. It was such a long time ago, I can’t remember which floor it was. I was watching the Pope, John Paul II at the time, go past in a parade. There were thousands of people on the streets, waving and cheering at him. I was standing in the window with a woman named Anita who was Jewish and didn’t quite understand the spectacle; I thought I wouldn’t either if I wasn’t a Catholic. When you think about it, that’s a lot of power that a man has. For me, he represented Christ here on Earth, even though he was riding in a car that must’ve cost who knows how much and surrounded by a force of body guards, none of which he probably wanted. Anyway, I was watching from this perfect position, when out of nowhere, this butterfly came flying into the window. A butterfly on Fifth Avenue in NY in the middle of a huge parade and all that noise. It fluttered in the window, and just like that, landed right on my left shoulder. A beautiful orange and black Monarch butterfly. I knew this because I looked it up afterwards. And when I looked that up, I found out that the butterfly is a symbol in Christianity. I think that made me believe that there’s a God and he’s watching over me. Not because of me. But because of my grandmother, who prayed hard for her whole family, including the non-believers. And there were plenty of those.
Butterfly’s are made out of butts that fly and fart. Which is dangerous. It can kill the butterflies that are flying behind it.
A butterfly is made up of two sticks of butter…that fly.
I’ve always liked butterflies, they’ve meant something, symbolically, to me, for a very long time. Not only have I always associated them with women, I’ve associated them with my girlfriend, and later wife. I will always think of her as the dedicated little nectar-gatherer, a fragile little thing on beautiful wings.
I used to think butterflies were scary. Their eyes were so big and that little curly thing (that I never knew the name of) looked like it wanted to suck fluid out of me if given the chance. I always tried to catch them, though, and conquer my fear of something so delicate and harmless.
a butterfly flew away from the flower, flapping its wings in the breeze. The bee was nearby, watching it fly away with an envious eye, as the colorful wings danced in the wind.
Butterflies are insects in the macrolepidopteran clade Rhopalocera from the order Lepidoptera, which also includes moths. Adult butterflies have large, often brightly coloured wings, and conspicuous, fluttering flight.
The blue morpho is my favorite butterfly because the color of its wings.the upperside of the wings are a pretty blue. the underside of its wings are brown. To know more about this beautiful insect, look it up.
A species.
I never wanted to be like this, and I’m not sure where it went wrong. I remember wanted to be a fireman or an astronaut as a kid. To do something meaningful. Meanwhile, I’m sitting where with this stack of accounting forms, falling asleep as the numbers all blur into one. What happened? Is it too late for me? I pause. I stand up, look at the endless field of desks in front of me. No, I won’t be them, not anymore. I cup my hands on either side of my mouth, face my boss’s office, and scream: “I quit!”
Sometimes I wish I was a butterfly. A butterfly that could fly away. Away from all my problems, anxiety, depression, stress, and even people. A butterfly that could metamorphosis and forever be changed into something beautiful, loved, and admired.
My one true love
She has always been my butterfly
Gliding around my senses
Taking my attention
Filling the sky with love
Today, my heart had wings for two seconds, and I had the faint feeling of may-be-we-could-be, this hopeful yet absolutely hopeless hope. I thought for 2 seconds about him. But I know I am the dull craters while he is the moon. I am nothing in comparison. And my heart became still again.
Spring was a season of freedom.
As a little girl, she used to go with her grandmother to the butterfly house outside the city, where she’d ooh and ahh and giggle over the brightly colored insects. She was told every year how they grew and hatched, but the explanation never seemed to stick.
All that mattered was that they were alive and beautiful and free – and she wanted to be that way, too,
sky
flower
her
last meeting
life
i want to be
I can’t believe this one word popped up. When I see butterflies I truly believe it’s Ma and Dad coming down to visit me. I never believed in anything like that while they were alive but the moment I saw them shortly after they died, I knew it was them.
The wings unfolded from the primordial slime; stringy stretching gelatin; the broad, colorful paddles promised flight.
It was a sunny afternoon in march. The last snow had fallen and was about to melt away for good. Daylight stayed longer every day. A butterfly was bathing in the sun on the balcony. The first sign of spring. This long, cold ass winter was over. Finally.
And even though a bird ate the beautiful insect an hour later, life still felt pretty good.
Even if the butterfly didn’t get so see another day, the bird wasn’t hungry anymore.
the dinosaur stepped on a butterfly and stopped Hillary from becoming president. War & Peace has the best epilogue ever .it speaks on this very subjec
She watched the monarch lazily land on the flower, opening and closing its wings almost apathetically. The air was heavy around and even as she laid in the grass she felt no coolness from the ground. Everything felt sweaty and hot. She tried to keep her eyes open.
The delicate butterfly flew right past my face, as if beckoning me to follow her. Entranced, I slowly walked out, and followed her, as she led me to a meadow filled with flowers. Then, I was amazed to see the butterfly settle down, and transform.
Butterfly. Butterfly is so much of nature. Its in sync with the nature & its goodness. Colorful & lively.
Children’s often gets amused by the variety of colors.
“We passed your family its sword,” anyone watching would have seen his eyes frantically searching for the source of this voice, tracing some formless path through the air, trying to catch ripples in a pond, “and it gave you glory.” Anyone watching would have seen his eyes stop, locked on a single position in the void behind his face, a dim light in the dark fluttering aimlessly about. Anyone watching would’ve seen him break into a feverish sweat, as though the dim light he was chasing through some darkness beat on him like the relentless August sun. “You have feasted,” each word let out into his shapeless world with a small burst of light, “but you have sewn nothing but death, reaped nothing but souls.” Some dull cries arched over an unseeable horizon. “We passed your family its sword, Kiyomori, and you have grown mighty – but only from resting so long in Darkness. He who grows from death, becomes it.” The thousand screams now transcended the border of his mind into reality, his eyes bursting open, begging for air to quell the fire in his head.
Anyone watching would have seen him fly out of bed, like a cicada on its only day under the sun, but just as a cicada might fall before letting its wings rest, he fell, to his knees, on the veranda. Anyone watching would’ve seen the terror cross his face, but only he could see the shapes twisting from the snow, and hear the terrible, helpless screams that echoed outward from their hollow skulls: the bones of all those he and his men had killed in nameless battles for such silly worldly desires – titles, honor, rice, land, reputation – came wrenching outward from the winter snow. He instinctively grabbed the sword at his side, as his family name dictated he would, but he stood in reserved awe, refusing to moved to fear by such visions.
Yes, anyone watching would have seen a cicada, colorless as the snow in the garden, fallen to the ground, struggling to pick itself up with soft, scaleless wings.
Yes, anyone watching would have seen the crest embroidered on his clothes, burning brighter than the fever within him, a reminder of the family who boasted it as a symbol of change and metamorphosis – and with equal zealotry denying to recognize its birthplace in darkness.
Butter fliegt. In meinem Traum war es, als würde Butter fliegen können. Der Taxifahrer wollte kein Geld. Der Kühlschrank war ziemlich voll. Wo kommt das Glas mit dem Kefir her? Wer hat es dort abgestellt und nicht mitgenommen? Sollte tatsächlich ich das gewesen sein? Mein ich von vor 5 oder 7 Jahren?
Her hands gripped and traced the rim of the toilet seat. Purging poison might be a release, if it didn’t force you to taste it twice. Instead her mistakes floated in front of her eyes, and when she closed them, her head swirled along in the same pattern. It fluttered down the hall, though the drunken voices, into a small room, back in time. Her hand patting his right shoulder, the last touch lasting two, maybe three seconds too long as she let her hand trail off slowly. She felt his eyes on her and looked up to meet them; it was like being struck dead. She looked away as quickly as a corpse’s reaction time could allow, and saw the bottles and cans in disarray, some on their sides completely, littering the table; her sharp eyes now barely able to recognize the blurry shapes.
She felt something touch her back—a wall? Had she been backing up? Using it for support, she slid to her knees, letting the feeling of safety erase the reality that it’s always more dangerous closer to the ground. She had cornered herself, but the design on the floor was gentle on the eyes. She saw a shadow grow only to recede when music began to reverberate through the room. A sad, slow song. A sad, deep voice. It was safe to look up—his eyes were captured by something bright, drawing him in. Hypnotizing to be, hypnotizing to watch. A musical intermission, brain too slow to recognize what it meant, led to their eyes meeting once again. How does it always start with something so trivial?
The sound of a mic hitting the table, the feel of a hand reaching from earlobe to chin, gently but sternly pushing it up, as if aware of the time limit placed upon thoughtless bliss. She thought the warning line around her was as effective as an electric fence, but it was gone with his outstretched arms. It was smudged away with a joining of lips, purple in the dim light, that touch and pull away as quick and as soft as a bat of eyelashes on a cheek. An emptiness in a shivering body with no other way to be filled but this. Freedom and escape being plucked from their backs. Innocence caught in the sticky web of the floor pattern. Stumbling out of arms, flittering down the hallway. The taste of something dark so familiar it might bring about the end of her.
The last chord of the piano reverberating in the sudden distance in between them.
The insect fluttered in the strong wind, struggling to make headway. The wind picked up sharply, and the small creature was tossed against a rough tree. As Elaine walked by, she saw the butterfly trapped against the hard surface, fighting to be free, and she was overcome with a strong but undefinable emotion.
Butterfly is the queen of colors.She adorns all colors on her so gracefully.So perfect andso pretty..I think its one of Gods beautiful creations.
This reminds me of the song by Crazy town. I was so in love with a girl and this song reminded me of her. I still think about her 10+ years later. I’m not in love with her anymore, but I hope she is doing alright.
The butterfly was confused, a lot like me, the viewer. It was just simply all over the place, then it settled. And something happened to it, and me. It was a silent beauty, and I was the only human to witness it. Is that luck?
I felt the colors of my skin flake away, like the fragile neon patterns of a butterfly’s wings, scraped off by God’s invisible blade as He attempted to cleanse the artistic palette. All at once, I was falling – pitching forward, chin making contact with the marble floor, though no pain reverberated from my jaw to my nose. I simply lay there, as my muscles contracted. As my bones shrunk. As my entire body metamorphosed.