The Performer

Rusted can next to a Guitar.

Empty. Nothing. Alone in

the park. Sat in your

spot endlessly strumming strings. Gliding your hand

up and down. Proper People with shining

futures. Passersby with their brightly 

polished reputations. Moving on

with their day. They ignore your existence. The

poor man they booed off their guilded stage.

You have no one. Even your melodies escape into the skies.

Cold weather. Chilling glares. In days of

darkness your cheeks turn pink.

Your glowing smile and

the lights on the streets.

You have no one.

But you’ll be alright. No tears of blue.