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