Katie Elzinga
Nov 4, 2014      Nov 5, 2014

Porcelain skin,
white with rosy cheeks.
Lips sewn shut,
concealing her shrieks.
Knotted hair,
with pink pretty bows.
Smiling mouth,
lips red as a rose.
Eyes open,
staring at blank space.
Pretty dresses,
covered all in lace.
Broken teacups,
will soon fall apart.
Never revealing,
her lack of a heart.
Perfect girl,
with an alluring complexion.
Fails to see,
her and her reflection.
Flawless,
you can’t see her cracks.
Scarred,
only seeing whites and blacks.
Collecting dust,
sitting on a shelf.
Contemplating,
life itself.

A poem I wrote for school, let me know if you like it? I also don't know what to put as a title so feedback on that would be helpful (:
#poem   #poetry   #short   #deep   #doll   #meaningful   #dolls   #dollhouse   #dollhouses   #deeppoem  
The dollhouse is a place of naive joy and agony.
t o r i
t o r i
Nov 23, 2014

Surrounded is a place where figments and imagination thrive.

Beyond the plastic walls is a place so dark and treacherous that true love doesn't exist.

Acrylic painted dolls sit and watch nightmares come to die, and dreams become corrupt.

The dollhouse is a place of naive joy and agony.

Rearranged piece by piece, changed and altered from the outside,
but the structure always remains the same.

please follow me
#life   #pain   #dark   #mind   #cruel   #agony  
・.・ ☆○:*・  I am an abandoned dollhouse  all the frail dolls are entombed insid
Amberina Rose
Amberina Rose
May 6, 2014

・.・:    ☆       :・         ♡  :・ 
     ・.   ○ :・                attics are dollhouses inside when no one knows they're there.   ・ ☆ ゜・ 
                                
・.・ ☆○:
・  I am an abandoned dollhouse  all the frail dolls are entombed inside.                           
                                ・ ☆ ゜・  ・.・:☆      :・ ♡・.・♡・    ☆                     and  :
○                 doll hair must come from pretty angel corpses   ☆○
  ☆:・       ♡・.・:   ○:
                                          ☆

Alexis Zapzalka
Alexis Zapzalka
Oct 17, 2013

Pick me up and twist
my arms until the
positioning pushes past
the point of agony.
Twirl my legs so they
dance just for you
and put me back
when you are done.
I can feel grooves
wearing into my back
from where your furious
fingers have gripped
me in trembling moments.
The color in my eyes
is draining from years
of salty water running from them.
I'm tired of this constant game.
My strings are worn and fraying.
But it always ends the same.
You toss me to the corner
until you want to start again.
Not watching how far
I fall when you let me loose
to shatter among your feet.
Because to you I am just
a little doll with nothing better to do
than keep you entertained.

Careful now!
Don't let them see you speaking, doll.
you might become suspect.

We are all made of plastic.

Quick!
Don't let them look through the curtains.
They shan't ever know of our ways.

We hide our messes in the closets.

Places now! Get in your places.
hurry now they might catch on.
Smile now! Musn't forget to smile.

Don't let them see what goes down in the kitchen.

Hush now doll, they're on to you.
Go on now hug your brother
Smile for the picture now!

This wallpaper glistens in lies.

Run along now!
Go put on your pretty dresses.
Don't forget your dollface!

I see things nobody else sees.

I'd want you to love me
Like your personalized doll
Dress me
Put me to sleep
Push me
DO SOMETHING
In order for me to do the same
I'd want you to be always here with me
You have probably noticed I can't do a single thing without you
You have built me a home
You have provided me with everything I needed
But love
Because loving me means not being your personalized doll
Loving me is letting me do whatever the hell I'd want to
And I'd rather be someone you don't love
Than to live in some place in your heart
And the ticket of entrance is only being able to do what you want

hilaryish
hilaryish
Jul 31, 2013

Once, i thought i couldn’t have
the things i saw other girls have
My body, rail-thin and flinching
conditioned to the self-spoken rule:
that i was not allowed the things they wore,
the things they said,
the space they occupied;
unworthy, small and forever changing, like roaring water,
i was thrown up against a landscape of women who were static,
ceramic and admirable,
tenants of confident peace with themselves

The change came the day i learned to see them as beacons,
not as reminders of that which i hadn’t achieved;
a similarly oscillating body and mind to bounce ideas off of,
not examples of things i would never deserve.

And lying on the worn wooden floor of my own dolls’ trunk one night
i considered, in retrospect of my transformation,
what a nasty trick it all is:
making us believe we’re competing for some grand and royal crown
when in the end, there are no titles to be won;
only endless civil war to be endured

fifteen minutes, concept/written/edited
a carpenter-he built my sister a dollhouse and me a horse
Barry C
Dec 30, 2011

My grandfather would listen to the Hornsea evening tides
he would compare them to incantations where ecstasy resides
grandmother complained that her husband was never really home
he compared wood to the soul in death searching for a form
a carpenter-he built my sister a dollhouse and me a horse
grandfather heard the grass growing he understood it's force
he would stare into the dolls house and share his visions
that night winds would blow the cottage free of it's fictions
On her last night grandmother opened the window and heard the sea
that night her husband finally arrived home and she for eternity
he would make wings for the horse and build a boat-his last creation
sailing at night he muttered his wife's name like an incantation
sleeping till morning the wind would carry his dreams in its suitcase
staring into the dolls house he watched grandmothers sleeping face

mûre
mûre
Feb 28, 2013

Ready, set-
Enter the dream.
Almost like real, now,
the retro cross-section of a house,
picture: Eighties
Complete With Dishes
thrown away furbishments-
relics of frat houses past
a lonesome piano
a most questionable oven
and dirty carpets.

And a little porcelain doll
glued together many times over
arms outstretched, a perpetual please
and the head askew, cocked for
the sound of the front door
under her mothy crown
as the dust settles
as the sun goes down.

Almost like real.



But not quite.

whispering smoke
and twist around me
dancing a tarantella in the corner of the room
that frantic dance
distracting from the truth

you and your doll house ways
controlling the letters
the things that you hear
the looks on your face
i am done
i am fallen
a celebrity in my school
but no less
no less
than a figurehead

 
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment