I dance with the grace of an oxe,
a stuttering child, trapped in a box.
With a sword lying over my chest,
a smoking gun, and a dripping mess.

I don't fight, I dance, though I fall each time.
When she shines, I feel like grime.
There's a heavy weight strapped to my back,
I've been following an unfinished map.

I roll from my bed, and I carry on,
we're all the same, and we've grown very fond:
of fighting our differences, and making them known.
But hiding similarities, flesh, muscle, bone.

I just wake up and flesh into gear.
because I know that it's just another year.
I don't want to fight with what's meant for me.
But I'll dance, and I'll dance, and I'll break the routine.

Do you hear that?
It's been playing in my head for years.
And it's that subtle drone that keeps me going.