When he began to write

It was for release

It was for show

His words were a sad performance

A dance to a funeral march

And so when the bad feelings went away

So did the words

The bad, unimpressive words

And he forgot about his dance

He collected his words and hid them away

As if he’d never written

But when they began to write

A group of joy and creativity

He followed suit

He wrote with meaning

He wrote for himself

His words were a waltz

And a march

And a jig

And his feet were flying over the floor

The flowers and glitter showered down

And the darkness did, too

But his words, his dance

Did not require the dark to work anymore

He stood out in the sunlight

And said good morning to the moon

And he wrote

He wrote

And danced

And sang along to his own song

Now his words are a part of him

Intertwined with his fingers

Wrapped around his hands

Adorning his head with moonlit flowers

And he is performing

To an empty theatre

Dancing to no music at all

And the applause is deafening