Torn like a piece of paper,

Two parts that just don't go together anymore.

No matter how you glue it together,

It just keeps coming apart.

Torn between what seems like seperate worlds,

Lost somewhere in the middle,

With no concrete direction.

One way is the stage and the other is the track,

Music to eight counts or whistles to eight laps.

One foot puts on a pointe shoe and gracefully ties the ribbons,

The other laces up a pair of spikes and is ready to run.

Part of me wants the nerve wracking auditions,

The other wants the pain staking competitions.

One side glides across the stage,

The other strides across into first place.

Something tells me I like the blisters and sore feet,

But then something whispers I like the track staind red shoes.

It"s the tutus and tiaras or the athletic shorts ad dry fit shirts.

It's the silent nod of you did great or the I know you can go faster look.

Something inside can't decide,

Something inside wants all of the above,

But no one can tell me what I want,

No one can tell me what to do,

And for this I am torn.