'Sometimes things just don't make sense and ignoring things won't make you dense, but some people can't say no, so if someday our minds do blow, from curiosity and such, we will no longer keep in our clutch, reality and questions thought, and hopefully we needn't sought the answers, non-factual, we've been taught.'

Answers are for dancers:
Never step left,
always step right.
Right on the course,
where loyalist fight.
Right in the angelic pose that they do.
In fact,
it'd be better if you weren't you.
Just act like they act and you can get by,
do as they do and never ask why.
Answers I give you my dancers,
my prancers,
answers I give you to move the right way.
Answers I give you my dancers,
my prancers,
because with my answers you never will stray.
But if you do,
I assure you,
you've clipped the strings,
and do know that it means
you will shunned,
an existence unseen,
by the people who dance,
the people who sing,
by all the people pulled by my string.

Artists are not people who draw, or write, or make music.

Poets are not just people who write, poets are observers, poets see the beauty and tragedy of life and put it into words.

Those who draw are not people with pencils and paper, people who draw have figured out how they see the world, and how to recreate their views on paper.

Dancers are not just people who can move to music, dancers are people who spell out stories with their being.

Painters are not people with paint and a canvas, painters are the people singlehandedly making the world brighter.

Artists are people with leaky faucets.

Wrapped in memories
A christmas gift with a bow on top
A surprise left at the doorstep
to dance fire before my eyes.

I can see the shadows
Too much color in the dark
twisting, dancing nightmares
Flashing across the white backdrop
For tomorrow is so clear
Yet today is hidden
And when I look around
I see only the blur
of dancers.

Dancers twirl
Through broken glass,
Blood in ribbons
On the grass.
False laughter fills
The air with smiles,
A collection of fake happiness
For a short and precious while.
Appluad the graceless efforts
Of the sinning ballerinas
As the crowd cackles
Like the call of a hyena.