About a quarter of this is true, but the 1st verse has happened one way or another, to every writer i know

1
‘Is this about me?’
You asked, about a poem I had written
‘No’, I replied
You nodded your head
But did not believe me.

2
A girl sits alone
Quiet
In the centre of
Loud laughter

Her mp3 player stutters hiss and violent pop
Razor thin production bounces against the
heroically fallen bicycles

3
Waiting in a quiet park
One summer afternoon
It will be the start
Or it will be the end
For the hundredth time
He rehearses his lines

4
With joy
These frantic fumblers
Of the written word
Who do not know the right name for oh so many things
Realize that those snooty boys with their degrees
Are not smarter, nor wiser nor more experienced
Just lucky. mostly. they had time to learn things by rote
And money, of course
And that
History will forget them.

5
She was the woman everyone wanted
Quietly beautiful
He was the envy of the shallow class
With his dull grey good looks
And now the bitter victims, fearful of the others
Reported, distorted, the cackle of the drunk
Scratching at the wounds,
While her partner invades her handbag

6
Had two dreams the other night
In one
The young girl
Just sat there not speaking
Holding my hand

In another
A woman standing talking to me
In a station on a platform
Waiting for a train

We both
Have hands in pockets
Awkward
waiting on goodbye

7
The old writer
Paused
Tired of making up stories
He vowed to tell the truth
Tomorrow
Maybe.