Mosh pit memories

Emotions, All of them rushing at you at once.
Act cool, walk slowly, take steady breaths.
Excitement pulsing, hands shaking, in expectation.
High hopes in the passing unknown faces, all expect a good show.
People pushing, shoving, moving, forcing their way to the front.
The crowd gets bigger and louder, my ears filled with random snippets of conversation.
A group of familiar faces around you are a welcome sight in this foreign place.
The evening passes, night creeps on, and still more people come.
They squish and they squeeze, temerature rising, from the heat of others so close,
An almost intimate touch, just being there, next to someone.
Lights turn on, music starts, screams begin to sound.
In the front, as the songs progress, and the energy arises
The people jump, and bob to the rythm, their fists begin to clench.
There is no real anger, you don't even know them, the people that you hit
Its just that connection, of losing themselves, to the feelings that your left with.
Grunts of pain, the bruises made, the spatters of the blood on your shirt,
They all play a part, Down in the front, down, in the mosh pit.
They barely hear the songs, don't seem to listen to the words, no thinking allowed.
Just forget, just let go, let the music take you.
The first time in a mosh pit, is not some thing that you forget.
The bruises are your trophy, the blood is your success
Sore in the morning, but great stories to tell, its all worth the pain.
Pictures taken, looking back, a reckless teenager at work.
You laugh at the bruises you were once so proud of, and you think back to a time
When anger was the only connection,
The thing that kept you alive.