this is it
the one,
number one.
Do you know what this means?
I have a purple pen
I like pens.
I am the purple pen
rolling a passionate ink
onto the white lined
ballroom floor called
paper, having a
history of many generations
Egyptians, Sumerians,
Asians and Americans,
but never any
butterflies...
I am the butterfly,
the Queen of the sky,
my scepters are antennae,
my gown is fiery black
I am the fiery black
on a chalkboard,
on a cloak
on a
secret.
I am the secret
flitting through conversations,
I am the conversations,
hoping to be spread around,
until I am number one.
I am number one.
at the top of the list,
until someone passes me.
I crumble, I crack.
my palace is no more,
I am not number one,
but number two,
number nineteen,
number five hundred,
number one million
It doesn't matter,
Only that I am not
number one.
My heart rips,
the white lined ballroom called
paper burns,
the purple pen is smashed,
the butterfly eaten
by a bird,
the fiery black turned to white
the secret told,
the conversations stopped.
Because I am not number one.
Will I ever be number one?
Will I ever be close?
I am the phoenix,
rising again.
and I WILL BE
number one.
or will I be?