Beats and beats,
with tapping feet.
One beat fast,
one beat slow.
I don't know where my feet will go.
Up and down the beat drums.
Along with which my feet thumps.
In and out I go of the door.
Gracefully, I slide across the floor.
The beat stops, and starts.
My hands forming rare arts.
There's a long screeching sound.
And my feet stop,
the beats stop.
I finally go inside the door.
Not wanting to dance anymore.
As the screen shows a straight green line,
I think its time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vote and share if you like it. Comment your views. Follow for more. Add it to your reading list or library.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
