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.

・.・ ☆○:*・  I am an abandoned dollhouse  all the frail dolls are entombed insid
Amberina Rose

・.・:    ☆       :・         ♡  :・ 
     ・.   ○ :・                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   ☆○
  ☆:・       ♡・.・:   ○:
                                          ☆

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

C Davis
C Davis
Jun 4

I am melting into place
Thinking of somewhere else
And every frantic glance
is a flash
Of something else I've felt and
My existence is longing.
My soul only yearns
While my mind on a kite string
Floats away with the birds
and I am bigger than this.
(I am more than a wish)
I can sing with the angels
when I'm tuned to the pitch
But I reach and I stretch
and I swing and I hit
and it aches in me worse than the victim of it.
My guilt, like a rock, sinks in my skull
Slides down through my backbone
Is heavy to pull
Only dragged by the fool.
Regret gathers and pools.

Meanwhile
My heart pumps this blood
as though it's paid wages and
Piano fingers shuffle chapters created by pages
Of books
Of mistakes
I have made through my ages,
So perhaps if I study enough
I will learn.
And perhaps if
I smoke enough
I will burn.

"The best way to lose loose ends
is to cut
Them all off at once,"
But
Dismissing this all
is a fate far too blunt
Yet my body creaks
in antique attic tones
As I feel all the weathering
From the baggage
on my bones.
So I Burn The Effigy Doll

(how pale and small)

with Respect and
Amour
And the visual of this is
Grotesque and Demure
And I make myself sick and I make
Myself laugh
and I make myself proud when
I Fucking swing back.
I'll (fucking) swing first
I won't wait 'til I'm ready I'll
Keep my eyes on the ball
like Dad said
remain
Steady.

[created 7/8/11 & colored in 6/3/14]
Nadia Hasan
Nadia Hasan
Apr 12      Apr 12

broken doll,
bits of china on the carpet
red flecks of hibiscus flowers
in white paint

demons peek through holes
in the plaster
jagged, spider web mouths
always hungry
for human flesh

He is the devil!
He is the devil!
she screams

broken doll,
bits of china on the carpet
red flecks of hibiscus flowers
in white paint

severed strings,
no will to be
broken mother

if she is the child,
who will protect me?

B
B
Jun 27

I’m telling you to keep your eyes
off the ground because
one day you’ll be under it, I’ll be under it
And soon you’ll realize that I’m frosted with gasoline since birth,
so the right person could throw a match
You had a millisecond glimpse into the destruction I can bring
My blood is lighter fluid
If I’m dying here, I’m doing it face down on the sidewalk
with his name carved into the cement
like the stars on Hollywood Boulevard
I’m the picture of you on your first day of school
Your first skinned knee, the the bugs your six year old self
burned under a magnifying glass with the assistance of the sun
My Mother slept through my childhood
and Daddy loved infidelity
I knew when you looked past my white picket fence
I loved you
Whatever that meant
Whatever that means

My father made me a makeshift dollhouse
JM Romig
JM Romig
Aug 3, 2010

My father made me a makeshift dollhouse
one year for Christmas.
It sits in my room now, having been untouched for years.
It's cheaply made from a recycled dresser's wood
The insides are bare, lacking furniture.
When it's obvious flaws are ignored
it's sort of perfect.

Like it's patheticness has some charm.
I can't help but think that it is the perfect metaphor
for my family.

Facebook has an awesome person spitting out awesome prompts every day. I have been doing them for a while now. I felt I should share some with you guys.
 
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