My Poetry. Miss Nobody.

She walks the streets of London,
Her hair is matted and dry;
A face yellow and jaundiced,
She's forgotten how to cry.

No one dares approach her,
She scowls and roars like a bear;
This is her defense for survival,
All she can do is swear.

Begging at street corners,
Trying to survive each day;
No one ever talks to her,
There's nothing they want to say.

She walks all day, sleeps at night,
One eye open most of the time;
Does this girl deserve this life
Before she reaches her prime?

An existence going sadly unnoticed,
Everyone would pass her in disgust;
How could anyone live this way?
In the depths of despair, she was thrust.

Labeled without even knowing her,
Assumptions made by the way she appears;
Maybe the reason she lives this way
Is recognizable with floods of tears.

No one bothers, no one cares,
As she ploughs on with her life;
No kind word, no self-respect,
Just trouble, pain, and strife.

An occasional person stops to talk,
Muttering under her breath;
Too scared to acknowledge the kindness,
All she thinks of is, "When will be death?"

How can we allow this to happen
To a human plunged into fear?
She must be someone's little girl,
Someone who was held dear.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025