“You were a late bloomer, weren’t you?”
Not the best, a sad little average to be praised out of concern.
A discouraged disappointment
But the potential, Oh! The potential!
Lovely is a lie fed to the average.
“Why are you so weak today?”
Middling words turned into ghastly lashes.
“Tired”
Lies in a life-cycle
Feigning an illness of disheartened dance
Attempt upon attempt only securing further judgement.
If only...ad infinitum
Today is as good a day as any,
to try again,
to carry my courage
and do what I know I never will.
I can’t even give up,
It keeps on drawing me back into a scrapbook of failures and victories.
This atrocious addiction
That is dance.
YOU ARE READING
Suicide Pirouettes
PoetryI have a love/hate relationship with dancing. I have been dancing for 10 years and some days I feel like killing myself when I can't get something right or I am not doing something right. This is kind of an ode to that.
