Dark Poems

Ballerina

I dance.

Flying through the air, a graceful twirl.

All of it to a music that I had grown so sick of.

It is a melody that many claim to be beautiful but to me it only sounds mechancial and fake.

The music is something I have to ally myself in order to dance as delicatly as I do.

However, if I were to ally myself with it I have to relate to it but I don't.

It is nothing like me.

How so?

The music is dead and I am alive with creativity.

My dance suffers because of this.

And yet, my every step and gesture moves gracefully into the next.

A jump, flying through the air.

The land.

The split.

A masterpeice.

A masterpeice that I create.

All to music that I've grown to hate.

I'm no masters puppet.

I'm more alive than anyone will know.

They watch me with bright eager eyes.

Sitting on edge to see what I do next.

They expect nothing but brilliance from me, they get nothing but brilliance from me.

My dress is stiff but I dance on.

My legs are difficult to move but I bend for them.

My arms long to be on my side, in a natural curtsy, but they stay in the air, they stay in constant movement.

Just for them.

And when my dance can no longer please them, they stifle their yawn.

They stop turning the nob that produces the god awful music.

Sometimes they watch me do a final jump but most days they sit there glaze-eyed.

Waiting for me to stop.

They wait for my curtsey and then they close the lid.

They slam it down with no remorse.

And then they toss me into the chest with all the other things they've grown bored of.

I'm thrown into a world with no light.

I sit there in total darkness.

Sometimes I dance but I'm afraid I will fall and I will be chipped and then they won't let me dance anymore.

The creaking of the metal falling into place will keep me awake, just as it had before.

Even when I'm not dancing, I can't rest.

And while I sit there in that chest, gathering dust they'll have already forgotten about me.

They'll remember me weeks later when they're cleaning out this box of forgotten things.

If I'm lucky they'll pull open the lid and they'll let me dance.

I'm not always lucky. Sometimes

I sit in darkness for months.

At times the solitude becomes too much and I risk the chip.

I dance.

That is what I have always done and it is all that I will ever do.

Afterall, I am just a ballerina stuck in a music box.