Writing is Dancing

The blank page is the stage

For freestyle choreo of my choosing,

Where terms and conditions don’t apply.

I taste the silence in the crowd,

Pregnant with anticipation.

The music starts. I leap, but don’t fall.

My pen is suspended above the page,

Ink rich with tales to be written.

Trumpets blare. Drums beat.

My pen runs across the stage, frantically.

The letters come out in homespun cursive.

I hear the cue. It’s time to end this.

Once more I leap, this time I fall.

A final bow, the curtains close.

Backstage, they ask, “how did you write that?”

I shrug and mysteriously say,

“The words come to me.”

Author’s note: it felt so good writing that. I haven’t written a poem in ages. Maybe even 10 years. I haven’t written for enjoyment for about the same time. I should get back into it.

Thanks for reading! I write for people in their 20’s who, like me, find adulting needlessly painful. If you could ❤ this article and share it with a fellow turd muffin who finds it hard to adult, I’ll think the world of you. Comment and I’ll write back within 24 hours… if I’m not on Netflix.

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