I am not a poet, but I do write poems for class, when I have to.

A fat lady performs a tightrope act
Balancing gingerly on pink ballerina slippers
She falls, and they all laugh
Exhaling a collective pent breath
They knew she couldn’t do it

She smiles sweetly, lest she be called names
Her cheeks as red as cinnamon candies
Smoothes her pink tutu back into place
And bravely mounts the rope again

A hush falls over the crowd
Eager eyes follow her progress
Chanting “fall, fall, fall” in hateful whispers

This attempt though braver than the first
Is just as doomed nonetheless and she falls

The crowd crows with cruel confirmation

She pulls herself up, her smile less sure
And a tear escapes her honest eyes
She wants to quit, but the mob is cruel
So she climbs onto the ropes once more
Striving to earn the paying public’s admiration

Miraculously she makes it to the other side
Disbelieving triumph is etched onto her humble face
But the fickle crowd is in a rage
The feel cheated and they hurl their insults

Each one striking her soft psyche like stones
Until she loses her balance and falls to the floor
This time she is perfectly still like a porcelain doll

And the audience members look on in shock
Surly children who have broken their toy

By playing too roughly with it

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