#manikin
High upon the hallowed hill,
games of war played out for greed and gain.
Bombs away, both foreign and domestic;
this is the end of all.
The hands of hate pulling the strings so tight,
watch as the puppet sings, dancing around the caucus;
this is the end.
Thread so bare you cannot see
that they're controlling you and me.
Open your eyes; behold,
this is the end.
Sever the rope, it's dragging us all to hell.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
Behind store front glass is where he resides,
as millions of people come strolling on by.
The man is affixed, cannot wave his goodbyes,
and he lusts for a glare through his frothy grey eyes.
His feet, they are bare. His hair stays the same.
Long days, and long nights, he watches in shame.
He dreams of the warm, supple touch of his dame.
As hes fitted again, "This months suit!" they exclaim.
So dapper he looks, and hollow his soul.
He gives them his best, in his suit made of gold.
Still they pass by him swift, never stop to behold,
The Manikin Man, in his glass front abode.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
It's not pretty . . .
the longer we go without speaking the more like a doll you are
to me
a dimming figure in my mind
that I take out of a box
for pain
or entertainment
The truth
I remember only when I feel like being free
And I put my manikins away
Yours still draws or boils blood
when I lift its plastic hands
Your real hands harmlessly work far away
Do you have a manikin of me?
A face you remember to haunt you
plastic hands you lift to scratch or stroke your face?
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 10:22 PM UTC