Katie Elzinga Nov 2014

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.

A poem I wrote for school, let me know if you like it? I also don't know what to put as a title so feedback on that would be helpful (:
mûre Feb 2013

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 dirty 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.

Barry C Dec 2011

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

You don't hear me when i say, mom, please wake up, dad's with a slut, 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

Melanie martinez-dollhouse

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 snatch 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.

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

Katie Elzinga May 2015

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.

I wrote this in October 2014 for school and it kind of sucks but it got a lot of views on my other account (which i forgot the user and pass for so lol)
v i c t o r i a Nov 2014

Surrounded is a place where figments and imagination thrive.

Beyond the plastic walls is a place so dark and treacherous that true love doesn't exist.

Acrylic painted dolls sit and watch nightmares come to die, and dreams become corrupt.

The dollhouse is a place of naive joy and agony.

Rearranged piece by piece, changed and altered from the outside,
but the structure always remains the same.

teaxstains Oct 2015

I am a dollhouse. Within my walls is a sweet little doll living an unbelievably hard life- a life that doesn’t suit the delicateness of her features , rarely coming out to play or to look at the flowers in the garden ever since my once-little owner “grew up” years ago- a façade, an act merely put on for the sake of coping with the “real world” although still remaining her child self on the inside – like most people, although they may deny it (which explains the little doll). There used to be  mommy and daddy doll  too, but had long since disappeared into some oblivion, probably lost in the hole under the bed , where no-one could reach unless you were a mouse. That’s what it is- a mouse hole of dark childhood memories hidden in the very corner of the room my owner never once dared stick her fingers into for the fear of it getting pulled back into it by some proverbial childhood monster under the bed- the bullies who’d alienated, called her names, and much more. The very bullies who’d won her parents over to being on their side instead of being on hers like any normal pair of parents should, hence this new, permanent residence of the mommy and daddy dolls- shoved/dropped into a hole under the bed of an otherwise well-lit, typical teenage girl’s room. The little doll lives all alone- no friends, no family, except for a littler baby doll that lives in it with her- the little doll’s sister (sometimes for companionship, otherwise pushed aside completely or yelled at for being a “nuisance” as if babies knew any better) whose only job is unconditionally loving her older sister. She’s a tough-as-nails doll, accepting no airs and graces from anyone, despite a default smiling exterior literally painted onto her face, clinging to no-one and certainly no man. (There aren’t any boy dolls around for the little doll to have a sweet little puppy romance with anyway). One day, my owner- all grown up and married stumbles upon me; now in the storeroom instead of a shelf in her bedroom, looks at me, smiles in nostalgic mirth, and hands me over to her little daughter- a splitting image of my owner when she herself was that age and used to open my walls and play with my dolls on a regular basis. And for a minute, I wonder if it really is as life now repeats itself, only taking a turn for the better as  two more dolls are finally re-introduced into me to the little doll. Two familiar faces from the hole under the bed that my former owner has finally gotten strong enough to stick her fingers- no, her whole arm into just for the sake of her little daughter.  The little doll is happy now.

Based on @slutsolution's poem (from twitter), 'Haunted house'
B Jun 2014

I’m telling you to keep your eyes
off the ground because
one day you’ll be under it, I’ll be under it
And soon you’ll realize that I’m frosted with gasoline since birth,
so the right person could throw a match
You had a millisecond glimpse into the destruction I can bring
My blood is lighter fluid
If I’m dying here, I’m doing it face down on the sidewalk
with his name carved into the cement
like the stars on Hollywood Boulevard
I’m the picture of you on your first day of school
Your first skinned knee, the the bugs your six year old self
burned under a magnifying glass with the assistance of the sun
My Mother slept through my childhood
and Daddy loved infidelity
I knew when you looked past my white picket fence
I loved you
Whatever that meant
Whatever that means

JM Romig Aug 2010

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.

Facebook has an awesome person spitting out awesome prompts every day. I have been doing them for a while now. I felt I should share some with you guys.
SilentAce May 2015

Careful now!
Don't let them see you speaking, doll.
you might become suspect.

We are all made of plastic.

Quick!
Don't let them look through the curtains.
They shan't ever know of our ways.

We hide our messes in the closets.

Places now! Get in your places.
hurry now they might catch on.
Smile now! Musn't forget to smile.

Don't let them see what goes down in the kitchen.

Hush now doll, they're on to you.
Go on now hug your brother
Smile for the picture now!

This wallpaper glistens in lies.

Run along now!
Go put on your pretty dresses.
Don't forget your dollface!

I see things nobody else sees.

Axl Rose May 2015

I'd want you to love me
Like your personalized doll
Dress me
Put me to sleep
Push me
DO SOMETHING
In order for me to do the same
I'd want you to be always here with me
You have probably noticed I can't do a single thing without you
You have built me a home
You have provided me with everything I needed
But love
Because loving me means not being your personalized doll
Loving me is letting me do whatever the hell I'd want to
And I'd rather be someone you don't love
Than to live in some place in your heart
And the ticket of entrance is only being able to do what you want

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