When you failed, And called me from those crowded streets, Crying. I cradled the phone sympathetically, A tear forming in the corner of my eye. One for every twenty you dropped onto the Cold concrete. Oxford Street was a bustling mass of Business men and tourists. And I pictured you - akward - static, Too long and thin not to stand out. Heavy make-up Blurring the edges of your eyes, Two smudgy dents in dampened cheeks. Through my encouraging words And reliable advice, A half-hearted sense of disappointment.
Reason for writing:
That person again, the inspiration for most of my poems. There was an audition, she didn't get it. She wasn't actually upset, I just exaggerated it for the poem. Any comments very welcome.
Birth sign: Libra
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