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iris-rebryPoems
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?
0
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
Number one
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?
iris-rebry
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iris-rebry
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
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