Street Artist
"Dancer"
by Martin Watson.Danced in the street today,
as I do everyday,
in my ragged clothes
bought from a meandering
shopping cart.
I dance, I sing, I draw, I write,
but everyday I hear things
such as,
She wasn’t a pretty sight,
from men who walk by on phones.
Granted, it is not at me,
(nothing is ever said to me)
but still it was at me
like it was at someone.
And that someone is
not being what he thinks
is right.
Damaged goods somehow.
.
I got tired often
dancing
so I dropped
against the building,
and hung the cup
between my knees
and held my head
down against my chest.
I know I look like I could cry
but I don’t cry.
Heck, I’m not even praying.
If there was
a sense to please
a god somewhere
out there watching
I’d do it,
but there is none.
There is just
all us people here,
the unthinking people,
all saying pitiful things
about each other
and what we do.
Like we do not hear
the disapproval
in the air.
.
Pitiful people are everywhere
Says a woman to her friend,
and drops a coin into my cup
(A nickel by the sound against the tin).
I have done nothing,
just sat here
proving her point
if even for a moment.
You’d think that dancing
would be more rewarding.
But I cannot be so desperate
for anything.
If I want it, it will not come.
.
And watch now as the rain falls
and my body glistens.
What stench is here
in my sweat
will mingle now in the sewer
with everyone
who showered
who washed their hands
yet our molecules will discern little,
as our molecules are utterly unbiased.
Everyone who thinks their lives are better
because they wear the faces of
success
home miserable like always.
And I see that as all of us
because we wish that
on each other
by not caring
about what we
hear each other say
or do.
.
But I am an artist
I love to dance,
(to sing, to draw, to write)
here, in the street
with my tin cup
in these decaying clothes
bought from a shopping cart.
I will be this with
or without
our faith in it,
not just because you see it,
but because it makes me happy.
Which is all that matters.
And I see that message
contained within our words,
where the monotony has drained
the colors away
down into the sewers,
dark and twisted beneath us
and distantly away.
What matters is never returned
but always together
mingling, waiting
together
until it falls on us like rain
dancing on the gray pavement.
Sorry for two poems in one week.
I've been idling on posts while the next story branches for "The Garden Kingdom" are being arranged.
This update is just in case I have any regular followers right now.
;-P
Hey dance step as well as your poetry is superb.
well done, post!
Nice to meet you... through the Creatives Coffee Hour.
Of course. Nice to meet you as well. It was a fun voice chat session.
amazing! Lovely chatting on discord this morning!
;-D Fellow Snekkies are always fun to chat with.
Beautiful!
What a great post, wow! Wonderful poem!!
Thank you very much for sharing on PYPT!
Anya points at @thehive innocently.
I blame him... even if he didn't do it.
This is, indeed, a lovely piece of writing! I love the way you have captured emotion and describe her circumstances. I hope you did not mind that I spotlighted this post in PYPT! 😊
No way. I just don't have a compulsion to share things.
Gathers all her toys together, and glares selfishly.