Another one shot I wanted to write for no apparent reason.
Some whore at the Moulin rouge's pov.
This is all the stuff she has to go through to survive.
No flames please.
Another day,
another day,
another need,
deep down inside,
pulling at me.
I want him can't he see?
I know not,
I know not,
from the way he stares at the other girls.
He wants them not me.
I'm not very special why should he care?
Why should I care?
I'm not but a whore,
a lonely little whore at the Moulin Rouge,
barely making it from day to day.
Nobody knows this,
nobody cares.
Beneath my façade I'm screaming out loud.
Nobody hears this,
nobody cares.
I'm not very special,
why should they care?
The nighttime is when we come alive,
dancing to survive.
Whoring and drinking,
multiple times.
Absinthe, my poison.
And whoring my sin,
with God as my witness,
I'll burn for these things.
Never to see the light of day again.
Tis my life at the Moulin Rouge,
and not a soul cares.
I know the poem does not 'flow' as some people have said but it is meant for her to be saying it in more of an angry rant. She is sitting in a corner staring at the Moulin Rouge and just ranting, she is so sick of it all.
Please don't flame me just give me some advice.
HLV