Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
murePoems
"The eyes are the windows to the soul" good thing I have pretty blue eyes? ******** The soul is the window to the soul peeked into by watching a life. Where does the self reside? in a cardboard box body dimples marketed to be cherished a full lipped smile, irises to beguile this image, lottery identity- Mine? Am I supposed to feel lucky? Arbitrary proportions, is my soul a brunette are its shoes size 9? Some assembly required- to be human words writ to describe this shell this meaningless husk puppet jesting at life feverishly polishing itself until it cracks, breaks abstract and lost. Does the self wear a top hat and say: "Here's a hundred years to sell out the show" "Til death do us part, my perfection and my soul." I'll lay out the patio so nicely they'll never even realize the host is in absencia, has hidden deep inside I curse myself for the illusion of aesthetic- Beauty is the greatest lie Rid me of the irons to my body my name my poise imprisoned in this wretched skeleton, the cage of the soul, the self, the someone in embryo form dreaming they're awake but have never even opened their eyes.
0
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
Narcissus was misunderstood.
"The eyes are the windows to the soul" good thing I have pretty blue eyes? ******** The soul is the window to the soul peeked into by watching a life. Where does the self reside? in a cardboard box body dimples marketed to be cherished a full lipped smile, irises to beguile this image, lottery identity- Mine? Am I supposed to feel lucky? Arbitrary proportions, is my soul a brunette are its shoes size 9? Some assembly required- to be human words writ to describe this shell this meaningless husk puppet jesting at life feverishly polishing itself until it cracks, breaks abstract and lost. Does the self wear a top hat and say: "Here's a hundred years to sell out the show" "Til death do us part, my perfection and my soul." I'll lay out the patio so nicely they'll never even realize the host is in absencia, has hidden deep inside I curse myself for the illusion of aesthetic- Beauty is the greatest lie Rid me of the irons to my body my name my poise imprisoned in this wretched skeleton, the cage of the soul, the self, the someone in embryo form dreaming they're awake but have never even opened their eyes.
mure
Written by
mure
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem