And the smiles faded as he passed by

 

 

 

 

All he ever wanted was applause, instead he got dirty looks and hate mail.  He would go to the local bar on friday nights just to feel social.  With every "Hello" and "How are you" his self worth grew, but he knew that the smiles faded as he passed by.

 

He hid his fear and discontent behind alcohol and cigarettes.  He would listen to records in his room alone, staring at the wall, hoping to find comfort in the words of his favorite musicians.  He would have day dreams about running away at night, and night dreams about never waking up.

 

While walking the streets he wore a hat and sunglasses, in an attempt to avoid recognition.  With every step he would shed a tear, wiping it away with his used tissue.  On sundays, he spent the day in his rocking chair with the blinds closed, and an ash try by his side. He never was gregarious.

 

On the night that he got himself more drunk than usual, he lied out on the street in the pouring rain gasping for air, bullet wounds in his chest.  The people passing by stopped to see if he was okay.

 

There were no tributes.  No buildings were named after him.  No biographies were written about him.

 

As he lied out on the street, he looked up at them with a blank stare.  He never found the right words.