Her hair is just a combination of cheap blondes, slung across cold shoulders; she’s just waiting, so sick of waiting for something she knew would never happen.
And she’s stuck in white stilettos followed in broken buckles. She’s caught in a black and blue dress that swings on its own to a song that doesn’t make sense in a place that knots her up.
And there’s tears falling down her face that cut through her make-up and dribble off her chin.
And now the music’s pumping and she’s got her head in the clouds, sometimes that’s better then getting lost in the crowds.
And she thinks to herself by tomorrow this will all be forgotten and the concept will be rotten and every action will be dead and left to be cut open.
But she laughs in the mean time, yeah she laughs every step, coz behind every smile is a tear she regrets.
She’s just waiting for moments that fell away.
Her perfect moment so sourly stretched.
And her broken memories and a choked up past, she’ll take a drink, fake a laugh.
She’ll pretend that she isn’t just that girl. As she stands in the doorway between the toilets and the wall.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem