I am a writer of prose.
Beautiful ideas,
but no beautiful words.
Some can put pen to paper
and their words flutter effortlessly
as butterflies do in spring mornings.

Their words dance around the lines,
uttering the anthem of the free.
Breaking away,
the butterflies don't obey the rules of grammar.
They fly to the beat
of their hearts stained with ink.

The butterflies dance around those
who instead of writing poetry,
write prose.

These creatures
remind us all
that before the diamond was precious
it had to first be a piece coal.
Worthless
Colorless
but they shared a common goal.
That one day their wings would spread
and words, they would control.

When nature takes matters into it's own hands
I recommend you hold tight to your pants,
because these butterflies dance around those
who instead of writing poetry
write prose.

They will embrace you.
They will harass you.
They will caress you.
They will become you.

Sooner or later we become these butterflies.
We utter the anthem of the free.
We write our own rules,
with our hearts stained of ink.

We become the butterflies that dance around those,
who instead of writing poetry,
write prose.