Dec 2017
Everyone in the city knows me,
Iām the man who plays with Dolls.
Made of Bisque and pretty china,
I will play them all.
No one knows me any better,
Than my doll Marice,
For when it came that time,
She knew I had no peace.
So in the end,
I sit alone
In front an iron chest.
The lock is jingling,
Yet my hand lay stiff,
The screams inside a gentle kiss,
That makes me wish,
A new porcelain doll
Iām the man who plays with Dolls.
Made of Bisque and pretty china,
I will play them all.
No one knows me any better,
Than my doll Marice,
For when it came that time,
She knew I had no peace.
So in the end,
I sit alone
In front an iron chest.
The lock is jingling,
Yet my hand lay stiff,
The screams inside a gentle kiss,
That makes me wish,
A new porcelain doll
An older poem I wrote while high as hell on pain medicine from an accident. It sorta gets personal. Trust me, it isn't as bad as it sounds.
