She wanted to write but to dance as well,
but everybody knows that if you trip the light fantastic
‘til dawn you won’t get up, take pen in hand
and put those words to paper.
So, picking up those shoes she wore
to fly around the polished floor under those pulsing lights,
she slashed the satin, cracked the heels
and gave them fond farewell.

The gaudy world, alas,
is the surest form of birth control for the writer.
Too much of real life will kill those delicate processes
so necessary to the gestation of thought.
A little living fuels the dreams;
too much, akin to overwatering a plant,
drowns thought and introspection.
You can dance, or you can dream.
She chose to dream.

© 2012 RC deWinter

Hear me read this poem.