The way I feel the rhythm, the way I feel the beat,
This is what makes me beautiful, and this is what makes me unique,
I am out there for everyone to see, dancing all the colours out of me,
Releasing all of my sadness, and all of my blues,
With every twist and bend, in every move,
Releasing all of the hurt, and all of the pain, Bringing all of my reds back to yellows again,
With the intensity of fire, I dance out all of my desires,
My heavy emotions, crash like deep purple oceans,
I feel my spirit lift and begin to soar, as I leave a rainbow of colour across the dance floor,
Sparkling pinks and soulful teal; now I can express what I really feel,
My indigo joy rises with the violet rhythm, and from within me bursts a prism, A prism of light, multi-coloured and white, restored and new, with a gentle golden hue,
The way I feel the rhythm, the way I feel the beat, this is what makes me beautiful; and this is what makes me unique.
About the Creator
Night out with the guys
About a year ago, I organized a night out with four friends. We met at my house in Australia and walked 5km to dinner as the evening cooled. Our route went through middle-class neighborhoods with little crime before entering a poorly maintained bush shortcut. The 1.5km path sat between hills in an old, dried-out creek bed with a fun, steep dip I biked down as a kid when the path was better maintained.
By spooky sessiona day ago in Poets
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley5 days ago in Fiction
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