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Beth C Apr 2012
Does quivering fear
or bursting anticipation
cause your miraculous transformation?
Yet another ten word poem. (I tried rhyming this time...)
Beth C Apr 2012
This is the illusion
of flowered wallpaper
and flowerless vases,

the masked truth
behind luxurious lampshades
and towering bookcases;

Do not be fooled
by the furniture,
this house is as empty
as they come.
Beth C Apr 2012
I am a paper girl.

I apologize too quickly,
sending rushed sorries as
the response to imagined offenses,
as if to cancel out my existence.

I am white and pale and blank
as an unstained sheet of paper--
pure only in the most superficial manner.

My coloring marks a lack of creativity,
a "promising future,"
devoid even of the virtue
found in failed attempts.

I am flat and two-dimensional,
my surface marred
only by the unwanted sensation
of crackling loneliness.
A rushed poem-- I wrote this in about fifteen minutes. Any feedback you have is appreciated. Thanks!
Beth C Apr 2012
I am the wallpaper
and the weather
or
the setup
for a good joke.

When you fail
to notice me,
and all passes without comment,
then (only then)
things are as they should be.
Sometimes I like to write the opposite of what I really believe-- I am an excellent liar.
Beth C Apr 2012
The fanciful girl with hair in curlers
laughs at her inverted existence.

We dream to make the world more interesting,
her only moral absolute.

The plastic diamond necklaces
are chains around her neck,
red lipstick is a garish neon sign
erected for the benefit of the blind.

All the red silk scarves in the world
can't buy the attention
of the one you want.


The child in the mirror laughs;
she is not yet accustomed
to my particular brand of self-denial.

For her, each slight glance is a tender caress.
She passes unnoticed for pages,
fading carefully from view.

Each mention is a resurrection,
a new life for the invisible girl
who wears her red dress
as an advertisement.
Beth C Apr 2012
Like
peppermint
and cigarette smoke,
with a hint of Novocaine.
Another ten word poem!
Beth C Apr 2012
We cling to the paper skin of the earth
because it may throw us off tomorrow.
Watch closely, Observe:

The grasping hands find one another,
fitting together like pieces of an old puzzle.

The gleam of a tear in the dark,
the arms of a father encircling his child;
these are the last whispers of an endangered race.

The earth may throw us off tomorrow
and dance in the sunlight on the next day.
Expect no pity, no compassion;

Even the tenderest kisses sear the skin.
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