I am the doll with the growing hair
Whose face returns your bloodshot stare-
Your red eyes accented blue
Knowing he won't think of you.
When back was turned, in sadist lust
I wrote the name, etched in the dust
Upon the shelf where I reside
To catch your gaze as you walked by.
You ponder on this grotesque mask
And wonder how this came to pass-
How fate won't follow any plan
And memories rot, still in your hand.
And though I torture where you dwell
I hearken now to what you tell
On how you'll live against these odds:
"I'll sop up my mistakes with gauze."
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 9:20 AM UTC
I am the doll with the growing hair
Whose face returns your bloodshot stare-
Your red eyes accented blue
Knowing he won't think of you.
When back was turned, in sadist lust
I wrote the name, etched in the dust
Upon the shelf where I reside
To catch your gaze as you walked by.
You ponder on this grotesque mask
And wonder how this came to pass-
How fate won't follow any plan
And memories rot, still in your hand.
And though I torture where you dwell
I hearken now to what you tell
On how you'll live against these odds:
"I'll sop up my mistakes with gauze."
Request permission to use this poem