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The beat moves me; When I hear switching pitches and jumping beats, I have to move my feet. I have to leap and jump, Flail my arms, Twist my hips; I have to dance.
Ghosts fade, yet memories remain laced within the final song. Voices moan as the ballad grows although, they're all long gone. Feet in time, I dance the line wanting to forget them all.
I’m not a poet, I’m a writer Since I was a child, I’ve been scribbling on pages One day your young, will be reading my work While you’re lying to them about Satan and Santa, they’ll flee to Feltman