The Beauty of Dance

Words.
I can write them down without end.
I can twist them around
And make them dance in an eternal tango.
With certain diction and specific words,
Each expression,
Each saying
Is like a new step, is a new move.

Words can be lined up and dressed in elegance.
They can be complicated and complex and
With  attire saturated in sophistication and grace,
I can switch the dance to the foxtrot.

I can tell stories
about a day, or days, or things that happened;
A beautiful ballet performed across the page.

Yet, what happens when I must speak these thoughts aloud?
When the music is played at a pace far too fast?
I have stumbled in my waltz
and my samba is over.
My mind no longer computes with my body
and the words can no longer dance.
They can't perform in such a state.
My words need their space and
They can only perform upon on a stage of paper.

The dance changes from one of beauty and grace
to one of regret and remorse,
But I must continually remind myself that they are
in fact, just words.