They're all the same.

The music starts, a screech of noise
Inviting all not girls and boys,
But brazen youths in lieu of childs
All feigning age and painting smiles.

A shallow beat the music dons
To smother art in simple “fun.”
The beat—a beat—they’re all the same.
So regular it throbs with din.

Uncreative, noncreative, decreative, acreative.
An urge to follow, an urge to leave.
To submit, to join? Divided
Thoughts are better not dwelt.

Feet pound tiles imperfect unison
Synchronized ripples chaotic arrayed
Ulterior schemas spontaneous emerge.

Rigidity, fluidity, possibility, impunity,
But always the mantra—unrelenting, eternal:
“Is this humanity or merely insanity?”

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