If a generation of dancers lives peacefully, count me in.

There is a rhythm to my madness,
the girating compression of joints,
swinging rapidly horizontally,
and I don't care who sees.

My hands grasping sky,
in daylight, in moonlight,
feel it taking hold,
and I don't care who sees.

Moving gently with the breeze,
and wildly with the ocean,
if the beat is what fills you,
don't care who sees.

Mine is a dance of agression,
happiness, sadness, loving, glee,
and I move to the rhythm of my own madness,
come and dance with me.