Private Dancer
30 August, 2004
Author: Bench
There she stood
In the middle of a tiny stage
Inside a dimly lit bar
In one of those seedy avenues.
Almost bare to her soul
With only a small piece of cloth
Covering what was left
Of her dignity.
She swayed to some fast music
Yet her face showed nothing.
Not a smile nor a frown,
But just a distant look.
Deep down inside
She is torn.
Ripped like a rag doll,
Nothing is left.
Later on, after her part
She'd be on some man's lap
Hoping to get him to pay
More than he'd bargain for.
With all those mouths
To feed back home,
She might need to dance
For the rest of her life.
------- Author's Notes -------
From a memory when I was first exposed to the Red Light district way back when I was in college. |
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Comments on this poem/writing:
| Megan (205.188.116.130) -- Wednesday, September 1 2004, 07:10 am Thats a harsh reality for many people , its very deep and i love how deep you got into it. -Megan- |
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