There’s a girl who dances in the rain,

She twirls and spins,

And rattles through the pain,

Toe to heel,

And slide and shine,

She feels her morose grow,

In the end,

It’s she, who falls,

Over and Over again.

Been trying to experiment a bit more lately in different writing styles, as mine aren’t all too creative. This is my appalling attempt at poetry, but I wanted a way to express my feelings and this just happened to work.

“Those who compare the age in which their lot has fallen with a golden age which exists only in imagination, may talk of degeneracy and decay; but no man who is correctly informed as to the past, will be disposed to take a morose or desponding view of the present.”  – Thomas B. Macaulay


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