"dollhouse" poems
I tripped on a forest of roots & lost my clothes.
When this happened, I felt less a lady
in shame of uncovering from pink, frilly things
the shelter like feathers on a peacock or
ribbons track-marking a braid –
I was enclosed in such a house that I must have
become it myself. **** I saw tiger-stripes
eating their way from my hips to bottom
and made a big taproot, a radix to the physical
me, as rosy as a flower in the dead of spring
even billowing as petals will for wedding vows –
the single, womanly cavity I concealed
how together we became such a dollhouse
for nature and its ***** hair:
I, taught to play with my own frilly, pink thing.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
The silver fog slithers around
my ankles, slowly winding up
my legs with a serpent's silk move.
Squeezing her fingers, my mother
and I approach the barn-red house.
It breathes heavily and its exhale
reveals a backyard cemetery.
As the mist settles, a limestone
hand reaches out to ****** her away.
Down the street the dollhouse neighbor
cannot see me screaming, weeping,
I call for help.
Brown-green water drips from
the bathroom ceiling--
the plumber continues plumbing.
Sweat beads form on the tip of
the fat priest's nose, as he climbs
the broken stairs, he continues preaching.
The porcelain girl wears her mother's
brown-stained ivory prom dress.
Chanting, Sonofabitch. Sonofabitch.
They cannot see me--
I flail my limbs.
They cannot hear me--
Their own cursing drown out my voice.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 6:06 PM UTC
i am choking for words.
i hacked off the tip of my tongue
to spite my quick wit-
stumble over it.
lusting for beauty through text/
creation is hollow at best-
a dollhouse
a fantasy, dystopian as per usual
for an idle mind
losing hours and
pickled in hate's brine.
salt in the wound
salt in the wound
angst, angst, teenage angst.
a kiddie anarchist.
stop fighting it.
turn up the stereotypical.
depression playing on the radio.
don't try to be more original.
what haven't we seen?
choking for words and
stuck on painted portraits
all is well, but never exciting
i'm exiting this uneventful existence
all for once and once for all.
-and you thought there was a winner
buried in this chrysalis-
well, the rhythm has returned,
but i'm sick
of painted portraits and lost hours
and sugar-coated expectations of the truth
how uneventful, how unexciting
and i'm tired of razorblades,
but at least they're honest
speaking down, insults and
lies and i know i need to sleep
but i'm fighting it.
i'm ready to move on, but not for long
not for long and
you'll see me as a butterfly someday.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
Porcelain skin,
white with rosy cheeks.
Lips sewn shut,
concealing her shrieks.
Knotted hair,
with pink pretty bows.
Smiling mouth,
lips red as a rose.
Eyes open,
staring at blank space.
Pretty dresses,
covered all in lace.
Broken teacups,
will soon fall apart.
Never revealing,
her lack of a heart.
Perfect girl,
with an alluring complexion.
Fails to see,
her and her reflection.
Flawless,
you can’t see her cracks.
Scarred,
only seeing whites and blacks.
Collecting dust,
sitting on a shelf.
Contemplating,
life itself.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
My mother asks me to buy her milk and I stand in line at the grocery store.
I hold the milk and I remember seeing our housekeeper's daughter yesterday, a 16 year old child, breastfeeding her 1 year old son.
I feel sorry that when her culture sees a little girl playing with her dollhouse, it asks the little girl to be the doll.
I feel sorry that when her culture sees a little girl fixing the ribbons over her braids, it thinks of ways to tie her legs as tightly as her hair.
I feel sorry that when her culture sees a little girl, it doesn’t see a little girl.
I feel that I call it her culture when I was born in the same city.
I see the line was moving while I stood still.
The woman standing behind me holding a jar of coffee, a pack of cigarettes, and a pair of tired shoulders gives me a look for not paying attention.
I take a step forwards,
I look behind me;
I smile politely at her, and say “I’m sorry”.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
Somewhere between
space
(and)
Gd
there's a star
made out of all the seconds you
cleared on the microwave
just before it was done because
you didn't want
to hear
it beep.
That is where time
goes when it's mad
at its parents, to play
old records and smoke
cheap cigarettes and
complain that its
best friend is dead.
My best friend/is dead/And although she would never sleep in the bed with me/And although she doesn't fit in the dollhouse anymore/I dreamed she was gone the day before it happened/and dreamed she took a part of my life with her. That
is where
your thoughts go
the first time
you
don't miss someone as much as you did yesterday. I am not proud/that I am waiting/for tomorrow/you are that star/and I will sit on you and dangle my feet in the water/Meet me/in the Mediterranean/so I can kiss your toes goodbye.
Somewhere between
you
(and)
me
(and)
washing my hands in the morning,
I learned
how to lose things.
Jun 18, 2011
Jun 18, 2011 at 12:00 PM UTC
Master’s toy
Wants to be played with
Oh, please, come play with me
I am yours
And only yours
I think that you’d agree
Pick me up
By my puppet strings
And watch me dance around your bed
Pick me up
And amuse yourself
I want a place inside your head
Master! Master!
Come visit me
Inside my little dollhouse
I simply long
To be your plaything
You’re the cat, I’ll be the mouse
Master! Master!
I get lonely
When I’m not held within your clutch
As your doll
All I have
Is constant longing for your touch
There’s one purpose
I am trained for
And that’s for you to enjoy
Forever conditioned
Forever enslaved
To be Master’s little toy.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
at first when you take off
the world just looks small
a dollhouse, a miniature world
an amusing punchline to an old joke
a fantasy tinged with g-force and sprite in clear cups
but as the sky darkens and the plane lifts higher
the world seems to drown in blackness
an inky clarity of night not confused by clouds
and suddenly it is as if you are at the top on an ocean
looking at a far away ocean floor
crawling with foreign creatures with all of their bones lit up
over coral reefs of light and movement
parking lots like stationary jelly fish and highways like currents
of neon veins pumping lights and cars
all of the world's exoskeleton is illuminated
and it is beautiful and movable
it is nature's patterns played out in electricity
but the farther out you go
the more the sharpness and geometry of the roads and cities
attack the eye
and the coral reefs turn to computer motherboards
all of man's ingenuity and beauty no longer draping the world
but ordering it
into squares and jagged lines
into distant pixel pinpricks
into maps
until you're not traveling through the world
but over it
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 11:06 PM UTC
Ready, set-
Enter the dream.
Almost like real, now,
the retro cross-section of a house,
picture: Eighties
Complete With Dishes
thrown away furbishments-
relics of frat houses past
a lonesome piano
a most questionable oven
and ***** carpets.
And a little porcelain doll
glued together many times over
arms outstretched, a perpetual please
and the head askew, cocked for
the sound of the front door
under her mothy crown
as the dust settles
as the sun goes down.
Almost like real.
But not quite.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
Take a sip
Strawberry syrup
Sweet and soft
But never enough
Strawberry sweetness
Smooth in your mouth
Tangy but not sour
Covering the dollhouse
Strawberry syrup
Dripping from your lips
Red
On your fingertips
Staining the lace
On your pretty white dress
Strawberry syrup
Making a mess
Can’t see through the syrupy haze
Covering my eyes in a strawberry glaze
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 3:24 PM UTC
You don't hear me when i say, mom, please wake up, dad's with a **** and your son is smoking cannabis.
No one ever listens this wallpaper glistens don't let them see what goes down in the kitchen.
Places places get in your places theow on your dress and pur on your dollfaces
everyone thinks that we're perfect please don't let them look through the curtains.
Picture, picture smile for the picture
Pose with your brother won't you be a good sister.
everyone thinks that we're perfect please don't let them look through the curtains
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
My grandfather would listen to the Hornsea evening tides
he would compare them to incantations where ecstasy resides
grandmother complained that her husband was never really home
he compared wood to the soul in death searching for a form
a carpenter-he built my sister a dollhouse and me a horse
grandfather heard the grass growing he understood it's force
he would stare into the dolls house and share his visions
that night winds would blow the cottage free of it's fictions
On her last night grandmother opened the window and heard the sea
that night her husband finally arrived home and she for eternity
he would make wings for the horse and build a boat-his last creation
sailing at night he muttered his wife's name like an incantation
sleeping till morning the wind would carry his dreams in its suitcase
staring into the dolls house he watched grandmothers sleeping face
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 4:23 AM UTC
I give the rat my dollhouse at night. our basement has a disease. my brother brings a flashlight to dinner. mother says poor devil to the poor devil she can’t stop eating. I have my own language that in hindsight is an age gap. I am so heavy. I jump and water gets out of my way. between you and me, sister sees me coming and throws herself on the trapdoor we’ve made a game of rolling eggs over. father shares a hat with god like there’ll be something in it.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
we were eleven years old in her childhood room.
she pulled a pink dollhouse from her closet, similar
to the color of my cheeks; i swear i tried my hardest
to hide it from her. the front door **** was
covered in angel tears, or so she called it. i asked her
where our room was and she
pointed to a red and white door.
“this is my hiding spot. i like to imagine during
school that when we run away together, doors just won’t exist.
i don’t want anything opening and closing other than your
mouth when you speak haikus into my veins.”
my heart races around 85mph sometimes but dear, you
had me going 100 and i don’t know whether or not to stop saying the words i am and my sentences aren’t haikus, but rather sonnets now and -
“just open the door, my lovestruck poet, come inside, take off the
door **** and live through me. my favorite flowers
are gerbera daisies, they come in all colors like this house, but
you’ll always be my favorite,” she whispered, afraid of her mother
hearing this midnight confession. her door was pink;
she held a doorknob in her hand.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Im a barbie girl, in this barbie world
It's fantastic, everyone's plastic
You cannot feel me their
Why do you think you can stop and stare
********** me with that, imagination.
I post daily, fooling everybody
That I am perfect.
It's horrific.
Convorting myself into this typical dumb blond chartor.
Glaze upon my skin as it is flawless
Little do they know it's stage makeup and filters
I have many scars on the inside.
I am starving, but cannot dream to take a bite
Got to pretend that my body is perfect.
Im a barbie girl, in this toxice world
I am drowning, but the waters plastic
You cannot feel me their
But you could not care
********** me quickly, it's fantastic.
Telling all the little girls thats i'm so happy
And this is their dream life
While hiding in the corner hating every part of myself.
Somebody save me from this glitter nightmare.
I'm stuck inside this dollhouse
The walls won't break
They just dress me up, because my lifes a game
But jokes on them, my blond is fake.
I hate my pretty pink prison.
Im a barbie girl living in a hell world,
It is honestly fantastic, no my heart is plastic
You maze well touch me their and undress me anywhere
Now I have realized no one really cares.
Yes im a barbie girl, living in a barbie world
I am now an addict , it's fantastic
No one want to stop and stare
No one wants to feel me there
When I'm washing down the pain with pills and drinks.
May 13, 2021
May 13, 2021 at 2:44 AM UTC
The Lego castles I built when I was little
Aren't strong enough to keep you safe
But they are the best I can do.
And I promise
The collapsed dollhouse in the garage
Is not a fair representation of me.
Though it might be a bit too close to the truth.
And I've never been good at Jacks
But I promise to pick up all your pieces
Every time you get thrown around.
And I got good practice
Taking care of people
Through all the stories I made up when I was five
And the rubber heads of my Barbies
We're always still connected to the plastic bodies
At the end.
So I think I have good experience
On how to stay alive in the real world
So maybe we could live in Lego houses forever
Please?
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
What do you do
when you realize
your life as you know it
is a cardboard cutout,
a dollhouse scene,
Of what your life should be.
Of what it once was.
The people in my life are characters
A backdrop in the place of reality.
Scenery behind my doorstep.
Photographic fire in the fireplace.
Tiny kitchen cutlery that isn’t sharp.
Staged people in my living room
at literally, a lifeless party.
A fantastic picturesque magazine spread in Southern Living.
And I am a part of this falseness.
I am a creator of this un-reality.
I am a willing participant in this stagnant stage of my life.
This life, this love, this truth
Is a figment
Is a dream
Is a scene of a scene.
I remember when green was green
And blue was blue
And I breathed in newness in every breathe.
Reality bowed down in servitude
And I took every step into a setting sun
The world around me, my partner in crime
As I took it by storm.
The tragedy here
Is knowing that life and love and truth barren
Is knowing it naked
As it really is.
As it really was.
And knowing that you’ve settled for the cardboard cutout
is recognizing you’ve given up.
You’ve settled for second best.
You’re taking the doll house route to life.
You’d rather watch the movie than live it out.
It’s cowardice at its best.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
Ladies and gentleman!
Welcome aboard Life Air flight 493.
We are sorry for the delay - of 9 months - in our departure,
but believe me,
it's better in here
than in the outside.
Ladies and gentleman!
There is no safety instruction card in the pocket of the seat in front of you.
There are no guidelines, no rules, no help.
Life is chaos and it is cosmos;
Not black and white, but a blurry grayscale
No x and y axis values you can plot and predict
Just a weird steering wheel
and a lot of dubious buttons.
(it’s not as easy as it seems in action movies!)
For life does not come with a manual.
Ladies and gentleman!
In case of emergency, oxygen masks will drop down in front of you.
If you are traveling with someone, please attend yourself first.
Sometimes, you'll find people who you think are
more worth saving than you are
but breathe.
let the air fill your lungs, overflow.
until it reaches them.
You can't help others when you're drowning.
You can't lean on others when they're also on the water.
You can't love others when you don't love yourself.
Because when you take your last breath
you'll remember
you never got your own life jacket.
Ladies and gentleman!
Keep the shades on your windows lifted at all times.
Even though you are scared of what's outside,
pull up your shades.
Look at the funny-shaped clouds
and the passing cities below you,
Take close attention to all the tiny cars and tiny people
and the dollhouse sized problems.
because we will not be turning back.
Open your windows.
You will see tragedy and hurt and war.
Broken hearts that may or may not belong to you,
broken souls that you can not always cradle in your arms.
Oceans of blood, bright scarlet
contrasting against the otherwise beautiful seashores.
Ladies and gentlemen:
We will be taking off shortly. Please make sure that your seat belt is securely fastened. Thank you.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC
This town is too small for secrets
The sidewalks are adorned with names and dates
Of couples whose love dissolved twenty years ago
While moss oozes out of the letters.
This town is too small for secrets
Through windows at night
The citizens play out their dollhouse lives
And dysfunction is locked away in grandmother’s armoire.
This town is too small for secrets
Where bars close at seven in the morning and open an hour later
And the tenders are purveyors of free psychiatry
Who put advice in bowls between stale peanuts
And place them on the counter.
This town is too small for secrets
Every hour the two churches compete for the loudest bells
But the protestant one always wins
And the Catholics having mass ignore its pleading voice
But whisper politely in each other’s ears
About the scandalous protestors out on Main.
This town is too small for secrets
With its coffee shops littered with youth
Who deny their wealth through coffee steam
And discuss the state of countries they can’t place on a map
And slowly leach out in to the frigid rain
Back to new cars and million-dollar homes
Where daddy pays the bills.
This town is too small for secrets
The college students drink their scholarships in red plastic cups
And scuttle towards their shared flats
Collapse in to bed too tired to sleep
Stare at the ceiling and wonder why they didn’t transfer
Three semesters ago.
This town is too small for secrets
With its gated communities of retirees
Where the homes are manufactured
And the walls papered with the smiling faces of clean-cut grandchildren
And the rebellious ones packed away
From the neighborhood gossip’s prying eyes.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
My father made me a makeshift dollhouse
one year for Christmas.
It sits in my room now, having been untouched for years.
It's cheaply made from a recycled dresser's wood
The insides are bare, lacking furniture.
When it's obvious flaws are ignored
it's sort of perfect.
Like it's patheticness has some charm.
I can't help but think that it is the perfect metaphor
for my family.
Aug 3, 2010
Aug 3, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC
*I was dreaming of you kissing me just softly between my eyes
and of children chasing a lamb around the silence of a grave.* – Alex Hoshor
I comb one hand with the other. beside me my son moves his jaw front to back, his chin massaging the ridge in the skull of our new puppy. we are snug in a velvet chair. my groomed right hand was last week reset by an accidental flash of fire and to look at it now makes one think of snakes veining then leaving the earth.
I fear I may soon have to field the proffered inquiries of angels lobbying for a pet heaven. I fear that fear is just something we say.
the dust on my daughter’s dollhouse worries me. disuse worries me. these small shoes on step at the dollhouse door.
it is the simplest thought that it could’ve been my boy, my girl, at flame. but enough that sleep of late seems cat nap to its greater insomnia.
awake, a mob of naked children some saying excuse me move gently past or leap the car or belly under. I walk from it slowly as if I am pregnant or as if in front of me one is pregnant. I lose my foot on the discarded handle of an axe and lose my way thinking it is the found arm of a puppet. I know I am bare because suddenly there is sand in my toes and the pregnant women are here to sunbathe. it’s the gas can tells me turn back.
how long have we been friends? the length of my belt, bed of copper or garden, removed with my left hand and laid.
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:45 AM UTC
I want to believe I live in a dollhouse
Where nothing is wrong, nothing is broken.
I want to live in a dollhouse
Where everything is permitted
But in reality nothing is like the dollhouse I want
In reality I live in a broken house
Where mother and father live in separate houses
Where brother and sisters fight over stupid things
Where younger sisters fight and bicker over the littlest things
Where going to a different house every other weekend
Where a nineteen year old bother is still working for a job.
Where the seventeen year old is working part time job to help with the bills
I dream of a dollhouse
Where mother and father are together
Where siblings get along
Where older brother works
Where older sister is helping with younger sister
Where everything is in place
Where everything is permitted
The one thing I want....
I want to live in a doll house
I want to be like a porcelain doll
A porcelain doll with nothing broken, just a little cracked
But reality trips me over telling me
"nothing is going to be the way you want"
I sit there thinking "Why bother?"
Then I remember something my sister told me
"Over think the possible"
But reality is telling me not too
In reality I am a broken doll, coming from a broken home
Where mother works a nine hour shift
Where father leaves town
Where older sister gets her heart broken
Where younger sisters want to beat the guys up for it.
Where older brother is lazy like a dog not wanting to hunt.
Where mother has a boyfriend who cares for us like a father should
Where father has a girlfriend who also cares for us
But I want to live like a porcelain doll in a dollhouse
A dollhouse where mother and boyfriend are married
Where a family is a family
Where sisters are playing around
Where oldest sister can read a book without splitting up fights
Where brother helps with the sisters schoolwork
Where music is louder than a bomb
Where sisters can share things like secrets
Where books and music rule the house.
Where siblings listen to their parents and obey the rules
Where friends can come over and stay awhile
Where we can run around without getting in trouble.
Where father can build computers
But reality reminds me, he controls the show
And I **** in with "I can do anything because my house right now is my dollhouse"
My doll house has everything..
My dollhouse acronym
D= Do what you love
O= Over think the possible
L=Love with all your heart
L= Let go of the negative thoughts
H=Have faith in your family
O= Over think the ideas you seem impossible
U=Understand that you are loved
S= See the inside beauty not just the outside
E= Everything is going to be alright.
DOLLHOUSE!
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
whispering smoke
and twist around me
dancing a tarantella in the corner of the room
that frantic dance
distracting from the truth
you and your doll house ways
controlling the letters
the things that you hear
the looks on your face
i am done
i am fallen
a celebrity in my school
but no less
no less
than a figurehead
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
Allowing him
A total stranger
Into your world
Only to have him judge it
He wasn’t right in it anyways
A dinosaur in a dollhouse.
All you’re left with
Is sheets twisted around
The end of the bed
A quiet house
Faint smell of cologne on your pillows
The kind that smells cheap and tacky
And an emptiness inside
That you’ve felt before
But now it’s inescapable.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC