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.

There is nothing as tender as a grandmother's touch,
but to me it is as if I am being burned by fiery coals.
My parents embrace me to say hello, goodbye or see you soon,
but to me, a simple words are more then enough.
The touch, whether romantic or hateful or not with any explanation at all,
stays with me for days, weeks, months, years even.
I think of the people who touched me and I cringe,
I think and I wonder why I am so opposed to affections.
But then I remember,
I am not like the others.
For I,
I am addicted to the feeling of feeling pure and clean.

"Why do you write a poem?"
"Poems are so deep."
"I hate thinking deep."
"Eww, so meaningful and dark."
"Ugh, thats so sad."

Those are the words I always hear.
Whenever Im there, here, or near.
They talk about my poems behind my back
Sometimes if they could, they might throw me a rock.

Funny how they knew.
Funny how they find out.
Because that girl that I trusted
Bursted it all out.

Life, life, life.
Is this what they call life?
Is life the thing that makes you get a knife?
Im tired, arent you?

They are living in a world full of lies.
In a world they think they'll be famous.
In a world they think everyone likes them.
But, they're wrong.
This is a world that is dangerous.

They should open their eyes and start entering reality.
And entering reality starts by understanding deep poems.