From A Whore’s Perspective
A Poem.
Trembling body, sparkling hills,
No one knows how sick she feels.
Blurry room, thick coat of dust,
Piercing eyes, incessant lust.
Legs spread wide, smeared pole in hand,
Queen of Bay Ridge — on demand.
Twenty bucks buys lap dance magic,
Looks life fun, yet it’s quite tragic.
Even weeknights filled with crowd,
Lost men looking to numb out.
Booze, addictions, crassness, coke,
Dark room filled with heavy smoke.
Takes her bra off and the dress,
Always eager to impress.
Laughing stock or ruined life?
Fully robbed of chance to thrive.
Downpour of dollar rain,
Yet nobody is to blame.
Velvet drapes, stage dimly lit,
Every face screams — hypocrite!
Trained to get reward by force,
You exhibit no remorse
When her love can quantify,
Easy to objectify.
Make her kneel, reveal her crutch,
All can look and some can touch.
Someone’s daughter for Christ’s sake,
Precious life dismissed as fake.
Tired of screaming — sit and write,
To escape the heavy plight.
Hoping to touch heart or two,
By admitting that #metoo.
Crude dissemblance beyond measure,
In pursuit of carnal pleasure.
Sought from Human you abhor,
Not Madonna, nor a Whore.
Music to accompany this poem:
A.B. Wisely 2021 ©
