The Dialogue of Dance.

This is my final version of a creative piece I produced for one of my assignments at Uni. In the spoken word poem I highlight one of many writer's frustrations: The Writer's Block. I am the writer, reciter and dancer.

Appreciate all feedback (constructive criticism in particular!) Hope you like it.

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The Dialogue of Dance.


I see a light, a lucent pure-white glow
A boxed beam of blankness everywhere I go.
This image is every writer's cursed epoch,
A hopelessly torturous path: the Writer's Block.

The emptiness of my screen
Mocks me in my state of
Creative-constipation,
Convulsion, stricture.
Structure - the lack of it
Lets me flow free
Free of linguistic confines, free of speech
Splattering spraying spoken saliva

Splatfeet that God gave me don't mean a thing
Can't change how far I fly with these wings.
Trickling in a chaotic flurry of flaming spirit
Directly into my soul, a thinly veiled stylet.

Many consider it to be
Too sluggish, thuggish ruggish,
Too unbookish, voguish, roguish
Of a way, trail, and path.

But the prisons of space and time
Are only residue of unbelieving in your mind.
Enter a world where words don't matter,
Fuck the margins, paragraphs and spacing.
Invisible walls holding me back shatter,
Gone too is the monstrous dilemma I was facing.

Let me create different instantaneous prose
With these fingers, this hand
My direction is wherever the music goes
Helping these ignescent flows expand.

Shifting without hindrance
Movements bring brisance
I can move as a whole, absolute control
Or just my arm, leg, an isolated head roll.

I can masquerade as an Egyptian,
Forming with my arms angled illusion.
I can shift like a machine with gears and bolts,
Twisting my body fluidly or grinding to a halt.
I can impersonate a robot, cold and unfeeling,
Control in my muscles, tensed and unyielding.

I can send waves coursing through my body,
Or choose to slice through the air like a knife.
Dancing is no mere interest -- no hobby,
It is a snapshot of movement - of life.

My body's release explodes in velocity,
A coursing, vicarious and vivid viscosity.
Spasms through arm, leg, leg, arm, head,
A narrative unfolding, creating a dialogue unsaid.

Charged with electricity.
Regardless of ethnicity,
Real truth is revealed, and falsehood - a vestige.
In movement, meaning is not caged by language.

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[StormProductionz]

hah, reminds me of one of pacman's vids.