/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.19356650]

Dancers were always beautiful to me.
Turning, stepping, the timed spasms:
rhythmic gyrations.
I always wished I were more graceful.
Awkward, clumsy, tripping over myself.
My body has always felt more fit to destroy.
Smashing, stomping, senseless action;
more fit for violence.
Than to pirouette and waltz.
Why is it that from this form of expression,
I am excluded?
Like a stutter, the words refuse to leave.

At the edge of a crowd,
each stepping four beats per measure.
I simply cant by reason of fear or paralysis.
I’m rarely alone but always lonely.
Im a piece of a puzzle that never quite fit
Some people cant help but dance.
as natural to them as speaking is for others
For me, it’s like reading a language
long dead and forgotten.
Sound and nothing more.
I should've been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling along the floor of silent seas.

I sometimes worry about the angels in heaven.
Will I be turned away when they learn I cant
I cant
when I cant dance to their choir’s song?
How do some people, wherever they go,
find their people?
Do I have no people?
Marked to wander aimlessly without rhythm or melody?

[N E M O . !!GgBWHLRiayD No.19357202]

The spinning dance —syncordance— is the most beautiful type of dance.