This is not my home
it is doll house
a superficial sty of false pretenses
the dolls all lined up in a row
their smiling faces cracking
paint chipping off
having to live a life controlled by others
the master using their enormous hands
reaching to move my frame step by step.
No More!
I am no china doll to be controlled
I am a living human being
able to live and breath
to think
not to be manipulated and moved without a will of my own.
Other members in this false reality
sitting with their complacent smiles
eyes staring into the soul
destroying all of the hopes and dreams of the reckless
compelling all to understand
that this life is not their own
but it is for those in the past generations.
**** that!
My difference does not dictate my worth from past peoples
they and i
we are quite different
beliefs as far apart as this house to my heart' the wooden walls crying to be broken
to be free of this curse
self trying to become the human Pinocchio tried to be
slowly changing from their standards
becoming the human being who i must see as myself
all of the cracks and splinters and scars
declaring that i will never be perfect
and that is okay.
No one can be a perfect plaything.
Not forever anyway.
everyone changes
whether they enjoy their distinctions
or see disgust in all difference.
A mirror never lies.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 1:31 PM UTC
The misunderstood youth
littered with scrapes and scars
cut away by the forked tongues of past generations
lying in the faces of countless children
slowly cracking the bubble of wonder
until it shatters in a fantastical display
of disappointment and sorrow
glittering across the sky
foretelling doom to the minds of those whose eyes widen with curiosity.
They grow up to be different.
Stretching their earlobes like their minds
expanding their views size by size
the ink on their skin signifying their individuality
used to cover the scars
and the lies
that someone with a tattoo can never be beautiful.
Cursed by those snakes in our youth,
but still going on
the poison of their words seeping into the soul
crawling ever slower to the center of our being.
But no matter,
this is how we are
different and scarred
unable to call ourselves normal
and so we trudge on
in this futile existence
screaming **** you to the rest of this dying planet
reaching for the void
clinging to what little meaning is left
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC