Poetry

Why is it that you see me writing,

scribbling, scratching, 

on pages upon pages of paper?

So I can dance, of course.

Dance a waltz with my sadness,

Dance a tango with my troubles,

this 'Dance' isn't real though.

But it makes my arms and limbs become one with the page.

It is my empty canvas on which I paint my soul.

So, why not dance?

cover the canvas, cover it with colors of life.

where the colors can be Black and White,

where your skin becomes the paper,

where your eyes truely are windows to the soul,

where NO ONE is wrong,

or right,

where chills, are just thrills.

Why do I write, you ask? 

to dream and dance with my own thoughts of creation

wouldnt you dance with me?