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.
you can’t see her cracks.
only seeing whites and blacks.
Collecting dust,
sitting on a shelf.
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  
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
・.・ ☆○:*・  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.

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

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, 2014

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,
It sinks in my skull
Slides down through my backbone
Is heavy to pull
(Only dragged by the fool)
Regret gathers and pools.

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
And the visual of this is
Grotesque and
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

[created 7/8/11 & colored in 6/3/14]
Nadia Hasan
Nadia Hasan
Apr 12, 2014      Apr 12, 2014

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?

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