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Forget your clean glass slippers
For this princess wears pink satin
In her long pink tutu,
Stepping to music in classic latin.

A woman's shoes are important
Walking in a straight line
Most just do not expect to bring
Bandaids when you walk in mine.

You think you have great balance
'till you're on your toes
Cause even when you walk in these
You must always keep your pose

But walking? No. Who does that!?
We twirl from right to left
Constantly feeling motion
'till we feel a threat of theft

So honey, you and your heels
In this competition will lost
For I am always dancing
In my own pointe shoes.
acacia Jul 27
Don’t worry your head of this: I wish I could turn off the fish tank as I’ve begun to hate the sound as it pours into the wells of my concrete-jungle eardrums, coated with the same saline to line the stomach that you can punch; I won’t mind.

(It won’t let me sleep—the sound is being poured underneath my sheets of skin,
boiling and bubbling, seeping into the crevices beneath my bones)
Crashing onto the floor like a cosmic air-force plane, I broke my wings, and I fell from the weight of the personnel;
no, no one saw me—then did I really fall?

Draw forth from me the syllables in my kidneys, the meter you wish to use:
these words plague my thoughts and it swirls into my throat, wanting to be drooled onto paper, dribbling like torrential raindrops;
these photos pile high in my mind, the dreams swing outside on my front porch hammock,
and it never wants to leave me alone, never wants to leave me be.

Fallen from the oak tree after climbing;
I’ve broken too many bones—I shouldn’t have tried it, for my grip was too weak; my heart aches at this fact,
I still feel my head whirling down the tree, not on my neck.
My hands move from your neck to my neck to your body to my body to everything you see in sight.
Ah, you like this? I’ll buy it for you.
Oh, I really like this. Will you buy it for me?

Spinning faster than a figure skater; I’ve fallen, sprawled out on the ice—
dipped in honey, rolled along a line of sour citrus.
I feel down and like I’m in the abyss of God’s personal Hell—no, maybe that’s an exaggeration—possibly like I’m in the hot side of the pillow that you want to flip onto the cool side—that is I.
I wish to walk on top of stilts like those ballerinas in pointe shoes—
use your head as a demiurgic dreamer, scoop pools of wave from beneath you!
I’m a Queen, and foregoing these deaths until I see fit.
Perhaps after we can about this again, talk and see what is really of this;
what is really the meaning that you give to this? Disaster?

Fill your head with soft puddles from rivers in the reverie,
free your brain from multichroméd free-thinkers;
grab my foot and drag me off the bed, pull me onto the floor and rip off my clothing.
Bite my neck and slap me everywhere, burn me with a curling iron.
I want to be bruised and I want to be loved.
You can give me the worst you’ve ever dreamed of:
fill me with things and replace my body with dreams.
Let me hear you say my name just one more time.
Fling yourself into my bouncing drowsiness,
feel yourself drowning underneath my waves,
allow your moods to be in urgent flux during my seasons.
Talk to me as if you cannot see anyone else.
Hold my hand because, Daddy, you’re the overseer of this fever, this fever.
Re-wrote and re-constructed this a third time. Still applies.
She moved like water
Grace as it is in every curve
Boundless beauty laced in movement
Infinite flow compressed by subtlety

Her dance as seamless as wind
Perfection carved in every step
Flares of passionate glory fills her skin
Never rigid in her creativity
Though as the crowd joyfully stood
Brimming the room of loud applause
She shew a triumphant smile
Now painted with fearful misery
May Elizabeth Nov 2018
Take off your slippers
         Girl
             and
                 Dance
With your feet,
Your greatest weapon.
Sarah Sep 2018
Everytime I see a ballerina
It sparks a sense of yearning within me
Yearning for something that shall never be mine
Dance moves I shall never learn
And I'd feel my heart weep
As it recalls the child who once asked her mother to be a ballerina
And her mother said no
A 'no' that gave me a weeping heart, and a murdered dream.
True story
Frances May 2018
Their figures stiffened but not aching
Her fingers poised, as though gracing a hollowed egg
At great length, unyielding their preciously mastered positions
Like snowflakes in the bell jar of an icy tundra

Tickled pink by the fine point brush of her creator
She spins, embracing your gaze
    Yet she is paralyzed
Her grace and strength bleed through the same wounds which rest, unhealed on the block of cedar which her weight dutifully suppresses as she suspends herself amidst the voluptuous starlit glittering illuminations

Their beating, breathing counterparts whose swiftness grants nostalgia to a world where clocks no longer resemble Dali's
    But instead are made of gold
With hands spinning faster than you can see

Her feet daintily hault the gears of this robotic stimulus,
She becomes the mesmerization
  Calling the onlooker like an herbivorous siren to a safe and warm pool of ablution
This piece was the first I wrote after many months of a poetic drought. I thought of it while staring at a ballerina ornament.
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
I hit play, Deng's's music was on repeat
The deep sultry voice sent soft echoes
Bouncing off everything into the street
Kemah smiled and laced her ballet shoes.

Kemah moved like a seductress in heat
Undulated her hips, moved to her feet
And she began to slow dance to the beat
Spinning like a flamingo on the street .

Deng nodded as she started to swing
There's really no dancer like Kemah
Her backside, rhythm, her everything
This was beyond contemporary Zomba .

I too wanted to rock to Deng's beat
Snapping my fingers, swaying at will
I just smiled and remained in my seat
But my old bones refused to sit still .

With Deng's latest hit song on repeat ,
Kemah's body swayed from place to place
Her entire soul intoned to his aesthetic beat
She was a temptress ,a girl with real grace .

Over where I sat in utter amazement
I felt humid looking at her silhouette
Suddenly I knew what Deng's song meant
For Kemah danced my soul beyond ballet .

Under the glow of the golden African sun
Her moves were flawless and unique
She danced like a young Doe on the run
Kemah was a star ,she was ballerina d'Afrique .
A beautiful African ballerina dances in a trance-like state....
everything else was secondary !
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