deepundergroundpoetry.com

Fancy Dress.

We were young,
you were four foot two;
that was tall for our age.
You were in a dashing, black suit,  
dressed up like the Krays in your cockney accent,
it looked expensive.
I can't explain
the way I felt
watching you dance
with Pocahontas, or at least her, in a Pocahontas costume.
I was sad. Simple as, I didn't know bigger words at the time.
I sat at the side, on a blue, graffitied chair,
with a little, sparkly tiara
knowing I would never be
your princess.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
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