When I Dance

I seize time when funky drummer songs break into my body robbing feeling of nerves making me fly off floors with hips bouncing and shoes sweeping soot on concrete I leave my history on any ground wherever I scuff my hands and greet earth beneath me made of cement and sand roughening calluses in my upper palm and never do I feel more alive in doing anything other than breaking dancing on the floor that my fingers sand with blood thrashing through my veins till I push and fly legs flailing toward the moon; only my hands feel this field of concrete within the hour, ridges of concrete rub against my knuckles as I guzzle in air gasping for breaths that hit my hands feeling this warmth pat me does nothing more than break any possibility that I might be dreaming, flying somewhere or dead drifting with sand dirt smears its calligraphy in an ink of sand when my shoes scrape concrete markings on the floor inscribe stories and time flies I see scratches my palms and shoes make in a canvas of floors where I dance till the break of dawn meditating with music, the bandage of my hands I read life through my hands brush rubble or throw sand dancing off feelings of being lonely breaking nostalgia of home because I can find that in concrete the ground teaches me of pain on my skin or inside my mind as I wander into a song flying and falling over pebbles that gash my flesh blood flying all directions and while wiping blood from my hands I feel my age seeping the years I keep anxiety in on a path of exhaustion counting thuds of my heart with sandpaper hands I forge on concrete I will slide-spin-tap the floor in harmony breaking my life into stories of me dancing in all worlds I touch, showing the world my broken rhythm in handling pain with hands pressed on floors people walk on in concrete cities where I fly into freedom, puffing out, dying breaths, and taking all, breaths of life, in