The blinding lights kick into life,
The quiet murmurs of the crowd turn into cheers,
The lingering smell of hairspray wafts from the hallway,
Today is the day.

The day you've been working towards since August,
The day you've been hearing about every week for half a year,
You've traded mirrors for memory,
And demanding dance instructor for cheering crowd.

Dance, 
It's an art form.

The joy on stage,
The rush backstage,
You've practiced enough you can see the dance in your dreams,
While you sleep,
But you still get that frightening feeling of nervousness.

You rely on memory,
Out there on stage,
The overwhelming feeling of relief,
When you get it right.

Dance, 
It's an art form.

The blinding lights quickly fade,
The cheering crowd becomes a sea of murmurs,
The smell of hairspray is long gone from the hallways,
Until next year.