My Mind, My Mood, My delicately poisoned pen…

I wish that I could dance
I’d probably be less of a bitch
if instead of poetry
the way that I let anger leave me
was through my toes
But instead I use my hands
And turn pain into stains
That I can read and re-read over again
I forget that I hate you
and then turn the page
back and growl at anyone
with a similar countenance
When you dance
You are exhausted and cleansed at the end
of the song
Problem for me is
I write the songs that heal
lovelorn ballerinas alone


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