Desperation

Desperation

I have seen her here often,

in this club,

where the desperate gather.

Seen her sitting there,

scanning the room for something,

looking at the people,

being needy,

hoping, that someone would just see her,

want her, be with her.

She was not unattractive,

men would come,

talk, laugh, and dance,

go home with her,

use her, sometimes beat her,

drop her, forget her,

treat her with contempt.

 A common theme here

in the club for the desperate.

She herself was no innocent,

taking out her anger

on men, lower down the ladder than her,

showing her disdain,

not knowing it was herself that she hated,

and despised.

Still I hurt for her,

and for the others,

in their dance of pain,

in the hang out for the desperate.

She knows even before she meets,

what will happen;

it has happened so many times before;

the wheel turns,

with her screaming tied to its spokes,

eternally turning ,

in a cycle of pain,

contempt, and disdain;

in a life of desperation.

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