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"dollies" poems
Julie had never been one to partake in Girly things, dollies and frills Julie was one of those tomboy like girls Who looked out for adventurous thrills She loved riding bikes, down the hill at high speed Screaming loud with her hands in the air But Julie could not play in organized sports Her mum said the cash wasn't there She sat on the  sidelines and watched all the games To not play the game was a sin But Julie Macado would spend her whole life On the outside of things looking in. She knew all the players on all of the teams She wanted so badly to play But Julie Macado would learn pretty fast She was one of the have-nots that day In gym she was better than all of the guys She sank every shot that she tried But organized sports was just out of her league She was still sitting on the outside Her friends that she played with said "Go see the coach", maybe he'll let you join up When she told her poor mother that that's what's she'd do Her mother told her to shut up "I've done my best girl, to give you a life" "And charity...I'll never take" "If you're gonna play then you'll pay your own way "For you learn more when somethings at stake" So Julie went out, hustled, working part time Doing all that she could to make bucks But, when she had enough money to finally join in The season was done...and that ***** Even though she had shown she could be on the team She was finished and did not begin Poor Julie Macodo was still not on the team She was still outside looking in She worked all that summer making money galore She'd be ready to sign up that fall She had enough money to pay for herself She was going to play basketball Her mum lost her job in early July The plant that she worked at had closed Now she too was outside looking in at the others They would move...that was what she supposed Again Julie Macado would miss out again All of her money she gave to her mom She would be an outsider for all of her life Never playing a game...'cept for fun Even though she was better than all in her school She would never be in looking out Until that one day, when a man from Kentucky Had come up to Freeling to scout He'd heard of this girl, who could shoot from the floor She had skills that he had seldom seen He signed her on up to a four year free ride It was all like a really good dream He told her of how, he had gotten a letter About a young girl ..that was her It was written in crayon and a little bid blurry And it stated out with a Dear Ser, the spelling was bad, but he read it completely It told of how Julie could play But she had not school record, no history so He set out to see the girl play He contacted the school and he asked them for game films They said she played only in gym So he set out directly to see for himself The decision would be up to him Now, Julie Macado has realized her dream Her life is all set to begin She did it herself, with a note from her Mother She was no longer out looking in.
0
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
Outside Looking In
Julie had never been one to partake in Girly things, dollies and frills Julie was one of those tomboy like girls Who looked out for adventurous thrills She loved riding bikes, down the hill at high speed Screaming loud with her hands in the air But Julie could not play in organized sports Her mum said the cash wasn't there She sat on the  sidelines and watched all the games To not play the game was a sin But Julie Macado would spend her whole life On the outside of things looking in. She knew all the players on all of the teams She wanted so badly to play But Julie Macado would learn pretty fast She was one of the have-nots that day In gym she was better than all of the guys She sank every shot that she tried But organized sports was just out of her league She was still sitting on the outside Her friends that she played with said "Go see the coach", maybe he'll let you join up When she told her poor mother that that's what's she'd do Her mother told her to shut up "I've done my best girl, to give you a life" "And charity...I'll never take" "If you're gonna play then you'll pay your own way "For you learn more when somethings at stake" So Julie went out, hustled, working part time Doing all that she could to make bucks But, when she had enough money to finally join in The season was done...and that ***** Even though she had shown she could be on the team She was finished and did not begin Poor Julie Macodo was still not on the team She was still outside looking in She worked all that summer making money galore She'd be ready to sign up that fall She had enough money to pay for herself She was going to play basketball Her mum lost her job in early July The plant that she worked at had closed Now she too was outside looking in at the others They would move...that was what she supposed Again Julie Macado would miss out again All of her money she gave to her mom She would be an outsider for all of her life Never playing a game...'cept for fun Even though she was better than all in her school She would never be in looking out Until that one day, when a man from Kentucky Had come up to Freeling to scout He'd heard of this girl, who could shoot from the floor She had skills that he had seldom seen He signed her on up to a four year free ride It was all like a really good dream He told her of how, he had gotten a letter About a young girl ..that was her It was written in crayon and a little bid blurry And it stated out with a Dear Ser, the spelling was bad, but he read it completely It told of how Julie could play But she had not school record, no history so He set out to see the girl play He contacted the school and he asked them for game films They said she played only in gym So he set out directly to see for himself The decision would be up to him Now, Julie Macado has realized her dream Her life is all set to begin She did it herself, with a note from her Mother She was no longer out looking in.
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72
The first pair of shoes you wore were black, velcro straps sat atop your pair of dollies to make it easier to put them on for the park. They were meant to be smart, but you laughed as you wore them against the ground so free as dad slung the swings, smiling at his child. Our mum told me I was a creative child: I didn't like to wear anything black. Red suited me in how I stood in puddles, free in indifference to how brown my wellies became. If I was asked why, I'd shout, “I'm pretending we're all at the seaside.” From there we made our way to beaches, where the wind was crisp and the children we could see around us acclaimed screams of emphatic joy at how the sea was so blue and big. We had to wear pairs of sandals when we went, but being barefoot felt free. All that time we had at being young and free soon went with the summer ending in school, the arrival of my freshly polished black boots was identical to almost every other child's- a lather of paint dripping over in mud yellows proved who I was with a mother's groan, and this wasn't the only time she wailed. As we grew older and wanted to be free, my sister started to experiment with pink highlights in her hair as I visited clubs with fake ID. We were adults with childish personalities in how I wore my Docs like a religion for feet, my sibling in high heels that you could hear in Sunday morning claps. The arguments broke out: she wanted a child, mother saying was too young, needed to free herself from lazy culture and find a workplace. I'd never seen both their faces so gushed red, just like the red richness of those wellies I had worn in the park. I pipe up and say, “The best freedom is our time as children.”
0
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
Childhood Sestina
The first pair of shoes you wore were black, velcro straps sat atop your pair of dollies to make it easier to put them on for the park. They were meant to be smart, but you laughed as you wore them against the ground so free as dad slung the swings, smiling at his child. Our mum told me I was a creative child: I didn't like to wear anything black. Red suited me in how I stood in puddles, free in indifference to how brown my wellies became. If I was asked why, I'd shout, “I'm pretending we're all at the seaside.” From there we made our way to beaches, where the wind was crisp and the children we could see around us acclaimed screams of emphatic joy at how the sea was so blue and big. We had to wear pairs of sandals when we went, but being barefoot felt free. All that time we had at being young and free soon went with the summer ending in school, the arrival of my freshly polished black boots was identical to almost every other child's- a lather of paint dripping over in mud yellows proved who I was with a mother's groan, and this wasn't the only time she wailed. As we grew older and wanted to be free, my sister started to experiment with pink highlights in her hair as I visited clubs with fake ID. We were adults with childish personalities in how I wore my Docs like a religion for feet, my sibling in high heels that you could hear in Sunday morning claps. The arguments broke out: she wanted a child, mother saying was too young, needed to free herself from lazy culture and find a workplace. I'd never seen both their faces so gushed red, just like the red richness of those wellies I had worn in the park. I pipe up and say, “The best freedom is our time as children.”
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39
He hands her bouquets She swats each away to see Guns firing petals She cannot recant The burn of spells cast daily Ring ‘round the roses And we all fall down Iron-hued blood that stained Empty bellies rouge It bled everywhere Darkened slick of sick roses She won’t let him cry Flowers from his eyes Or hanging paper dollies Says that it’s okay Says that it’s okay She can’t spill bone-dry flowers To drown in the Nile She swats each bouquet Why won’t she just let him care? He’s swatted away
0
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Bouquet of Haiku
This is Anna Anna has a dolly A raggedy little thing Her name is Miss Molly Anna loves Miss Molly She had her since she was three Miss Molly loves Anna They are as close as can be Sometimes Anna is happy Which makes Miss Molly happy Sometimes Anna is sad Which makes Miss Molly sad Sometimes Anna had to leave Which makes Miss Molly angry And when Miss Molly is angry Anna is scared But that's okay Because Miss Molly always says she's sorry And Anna forgives her Because friends accept apology One day, Anna had to go on a 'trip' Miss Molly wanted to come “No, sweetie, Miss Molly can't go This is your first day of school,” said her mum So Anna left And Miss Molly grew angry She grew so mad Her smiley face turned ugly When Anna came back home And went to her dolly in her room Miss Molly started shouting at her Her face full of anger and gloom “Why did you leave me?” she yelled, “I thought we were best friends!” “We are,” Anna cried back, “But you have to wait until school ends.” Miss Molly grew quiet Her face blank on her raggedy head A few minutes passed And she finally said “Stay with me, Anna, Forever and ever. We will never be apart Whenever and wherever.” Anna looked at Miss Molly Into her dolly's button eyes And finally said, “Okay. No more saying goodbyes.” In the closet on a little girl's room In a box full of forgotten toys Lay two little dollies Smiling in the silent noise. The End
0
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
Miss Molly
She was our first grandchild And naturally We loved her dearly And I adored her As only grand-dads can And she latched onto me She used to come to us every Tuesday At a time when kids are most interesting She was fully conversational (Didn't we all know it) Her personality was emerging And she was still young enough To have her originality and imagination My little gold mine of joy And this is how it would go "Grand-dad, you be the shop keeper And I'll bring my dollies in for clothes." So she would lay out her doll's outfits And bring her dolls forward to buy clothes She would haggle over the price (and win) And pay me in cardboard coins "Let's watch a video, Grand-dad! Let's watch Barny!" (Again) I hate that ****** purple dinosaur And Katie thinks he's wonderful That smarmy voice of his "I love you and you love me," I bleeding don't you know I wouldn't let him within a hundred miles Of any kids of mine. In the course of the day I would be called upon To play multiple parts in Everything from The Three Bears To Little Red Riding Hood In which I memorably became Big Bad Wolf and Grandma And presumably ate myself But the highlight of the day Was the last thing before she went home The weekly show "Introduce me, Grand-dad!" In my best showman's voice "Ladies and gentlemen...!" To my wife and dog "...The moment you've been waiting for. Fresh from her recent tour Of our back garden..... Miss Katie......." "Katie Spice, Grand-dad." "Miss Katie SPICE!" Into some popular ditty of the day Issuing from her at full volume Then she would stop mid-line While she did a little dance step All greeted by thunderous applause In her head it was Carnegie Hall Rather than my wife, my dog and me So, a happy end to a happy day Then Katie went home And I slipped into an exhausted coma                                            By Phil Roberts
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Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC
TUESDAYS WITH KATIE
She was our first grandchild And naturally We loved her dearly And I adored her As only grand-dads can And she latched onto me She used to come to us every Tuesday At a time when kids are most interesting She was fully conversational (Didn't we all know it) Her personality was emerging And she was still young enough To have her originality and imagination My little gold mine of joy And this is how it would go "Grand-dad, you be the shop keeper And I'll bring my dollies in for clothes." So she would lay out her doll's outfits And bring her dolls forward to buy clothes She would haggle over the price (and win) And pay me in cardboard coins "Let's watch a video, Grand-dad! Let's watch Barny!" (Again) I hate that ****** purple dinosaur And Katie thinks he's wonderful That smarmy voice of his "I love you and you love me," I bleeding don't you know I wouldn't let him within a hundred miles Of any kids of mine. In the course of the day I would be called upon To play multiple parts in Everything from The Three Bears To Little Red Riding Hood In which I memorably became Big Bad Wolf and Grandma And presumably ate myself But the highlight of the day Was the last thing before she went home The weekly show "Introduce me, Grand-dad!" In my best showman's voice "Ladies and gentlemen...!" To my wife and dog "...The moment you've been waiting for. Fresh from her recent tour Of our back garden..... Miss Katie......." "Katie Spice, Grand-dad." "Miss Katie SPICE!" Into some popular ditty of the day Issuing from her at full volume Then she would stop mid-line While she did a little dance step All greeted by thunderous applause In her head it was Carnegie Hall Rather than my wife, my dog and me So, a happy end to a happy day Then Katie went home And I slipped into an exhausted coma                                            By Phil Roberts
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62
I want, to, draw a, picture. With stick, figures, and a dog, on a hill, with a ball, and I promise, I won’t, eat the, crayons. I just, wish, I could be, a toddler. I want, to throw, a tantrum. Pull my, hair, throw, the paint, scream, until I’m, shaking, and you’re, pacing. I want, to be, a toddler. Play with, blocks, and dollies, be your little, princess. I, Want, To, Be, A, Toddler. Pout, Stomp my feet, Until I get, My way. Pretty please? I want to be, a, Toddler. Let me, Scream, I want, Crying. Let, Me, NO! This isn’t, me. I’m not, a, toddler. I want, to paint, a picture, with stick figures, and a dog, on a hill. I promise, I won’t, make it, into soup.
0
Aug 3, 2023
Aug 3, 2023 at 11:09 AM UTC
Toddler
Sleep my child, sleep No need to count sheep Just close your eyes No need to cry Sleep my child, sleep Only a room away Wake to a new day feel no fear Im still right here Sleep my child, sleep Protected by his blood Like Noah and the flood Youll be unharmed Just like a charm Sleep my child, sleep Precious as can be Eyes not meant to see Creepy crawlies and voodoo dollies Sleep my child, sleep this is meant to be sang
0
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 6:16 PM UTC
A Mothers Lullaby
A 15 year old girl with 3 ****** partners almost up to 4 Living without essentials because her family lives poor Feeding in addiction while her body craves more She's growing up too fast and she's doing it alone She says she needs the drugs because she won't make it on her own So she lights up that blunt and snorts some of that coke As her body sub-misses to the drug she says softly "don't tell my folks" Deeper and deeper she sinks into her own hellish abyss As a child she never thought life could be like this But she also thought daddies weren't supposed to hit mommies And little girls were supposed to just play with their dollies Instead of hiding from step-brothers with lust in their eyes Just to be found in her room at night, awaiting a not so pleasant surprise Her life has been nothing but bad days with dark skies A 15 year old girl with 4 ****** partners almost up to 5 Married to *** pain and drugs She makes a beautiful wife Married to the death of love She makes a beautiful wife
0
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
A Beautiful Wife
you treat me so sweetly,  your favorite doll you always play so carefully you put me away in the closet when you're done with me and when i rip,  you gently sew me back you always forget that dolls have feelings, too, though and you just get mad so easily you always are physically ever so soft,  but verbally you just destroy me you always just put me back in my box but can't you see i'm hurting? you only see the outside never the tears i'm just a doll good dollies don't cry,  good dollies can't cry i'm just a doll so you leave without a second thought i've been in your closet for so long i'm all but a forgotten toy now it's so cold in here why have you left me to rot? i cannot move,  you must know this i can only sit and stare i'm just a doll,  can't you remember? i'm just a doll i'm just a doll
0
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 2:06 AM UTC
just a doll
Mr Finn was talking history Saxon stuff battlements and castles listening I recalled the toy fort that I got for my 6th birthday gift with coloured lead soldiers some with swords some with bows and arrows and after the school day on the way home I asked Janice if she'd like to see my fort you've a fort? a real fort? she asked me as we walked together along St George's Road it's a toy fort I got for my 6th birthday gift has it got a drawbridge? sure it has and towers? 5 if you count the one over the drawbridge I informed her I'd love to see your fort she said so I took her to the flat where I lived and showed her the toy fort and soldiers and we sat on the floor and my mum brought us drinks of Tizer and biscuits and Janice said to me maybe you'd like to see my dollies at my place Gran likes you then we can have a tea party with my dollies I liked her but going to a doll's tea party how could a young boy live that one down if the boys on the block found that out so I said maybe one day I might when there's not a moon out in the night.
0
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 7:28 AM UTC
MAYBE NOT 1957.
Baby watered her bears And fell asleep in a sodden heap Dreaming, no doubt, Of a world where watered teddies grow Like flowers, throw Their paws to the sky, Fur unfolding like petals, Chummy grins becoming monstrous, Button eyes like black holes, Threatening to gobble her up. She woke screaming at 3am I replaced the wet with dry, Soothed with cuddles, Changed the scary dripping bears For dry dollies. Now she's sleeping soundly, Hairy scary bears, downstairs Waiting to be be tumbled, Wanting to be dry.
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Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
Sippy Cup Shenanigans
A rocking chair sits On the porch Of a house On the corner of ol’ Honey Lane. It looks over fields of lavender stems And rocks with the wind and the rain. I grew up walking past it, On ol’ Honey Lane, And would sometimes drop by for a swing. I brought books and some snacks, Played with dollies and jacks, This poor rocker withstood everything. I grew a bit older but kept coming back To my rocker on ol’ Honey Lane. I’d bring it my sorrows and rock til the morrow, Forgetting my worries and pain. The gentle caressing of lavender lullabies Scattered the clouds of grey. And whene’er I was lonely, I knew that only My rocker could brighten my day. Still older I grew and soon began dreaming Of cities more couth and refined. So I hopped on a plane, fled my ol' Honey Lane And left my poor rocker behind. I traded my jeans for a dazzling dress, And dollies for wine and pearls. But nothing within could dare to trade in
 The mem’ry of that young, little girl. The girl who spent hours watching lavender fields, On the corner of ol’ Honey Lane. I knew without haste, there was no time to waste, I had to go find her again. So back home I flew, to see family and friends, To smell lavender waft through the air. I ran to the porch of the old corner house, And saw my dear old rocking chair. I hopped on it’s seat, kicked my feet off the ground, And remembered the wind and the rain. As the sun went to sleep in the lavender fields, So I slept on my rocker On ol’ Honey Lane. - p. winter
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Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 7:53 PM UTC
The Rocker on Ol' Honey Lane
A rocking chair sits On the porch Of a house On the corner of ol’ Honey Lane. It looks over fields of lavender stems And rocks with the wind and the rain. I grew up walking past it, On ol’ Honey Lane, And would sometimes drop by for a swing. I brought books and some snacks, Played with dollies and jacks, This poor rocker withstood everything. I grew a bit older but kept coming back To my rocker on ol’ Honey Lane. I’d bring it my sorrows and rock til the morrow, Forgetting my worries and pain. The gentle caressing of lavender lullabies Scattered the clouds of grey. And whene’er I was lonely, I knew that only My rocker could brighten my day. Still older I grew and soon began dreaming Of cities more couth and refined. So I hopped on a plane, fled my ol' Honey Lane And left my poor rocker behind. I traded my jeans for a dazzling dress, And dollies for wine and pearls. But nothing within could dare to trade in
 The mem’ry of that young, little girl. The girl who spent hours watching lavender fields, On the corner of ol’ Honey Lane. I knew without haste, there was no time to waste, I had to go find her again. So back home I flew, to see family and friends, To smell lavender waft through the air. I ran to the porch of the old corner house, And saw my dear old rocking chair. I hopped on it’s seat, kicked my feet off the ground, And remembered the wind and the rain. As the sun went to sleep in the lavender fields, So I slept on my rocker On ol’ Honey Lane. - p. winter
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42
Woooo Woooo We screamed as kids Cowboys and Indians Cops and robbers We progressed to war Endemic it seems from tv One of us German one English Innocence in play yet failed We always portray one good one bad No word to what made that happen North and south went to war North won but what if they hadn't?? Or what if the **** army had conquered Well all considered and bewildered I'm playing dollies and house with my little girl
0
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC
Imprinted
Sneakers left in blue shoe boxes Milk is spilt on ruined floors Sewing chair just ricks and rockes. Paint is chipped off old, white doors. Mice and murmuring reconcile Sheets left huddled in room Books and briefcase in a pile Hatbox smells of old perfume. A child's dollies left, and loveless Glasses cracked and on the chair Courtyard empty, dead and dove less Frames are empty, cracked and bare. Stairs are winding up, unending Cotton seeps from cushion wounds Old oak branches broke and bending Cluttered forks and silver spoons. Empty always, still and lonely People come but never stay Stay one night but one night only Then they up and go away.
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Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:00 AM UTC
Mansion's Lament
From little dollies, To sitting in trollies. Sitting beneath trees, In the summer breeze. Not a care I felt, Nor a worry to feel. Just me and my friends, Imaginary or real. The delight of innocence, In the simpler days, As I ponder back to the simpler ways.
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Apr 6, 2024
Apr 6, 2024 at 4:26 PM UTC
The Simpler Days
Under a blanket of  blackest wool tiny darting stab wounds bleed  yellow splinters through a night sky that borrowed it's blue from the bottom of the sea. -In the up there.        -In the out there. And on our wooden chairs painted crisp bay white chipped over the years, so the layers of paint becomes a calendar - we sit to watch 63 moons glide gracefully, circle daintily- We strain our necks and whisper tightly say the things that move from tongues to fingertips. Wild gestures meant to land sooner than the bitter words. Under the nebulae where you once gave me a ring which you slung round a planet with a ladder and rope. And you gave me a promise that's still hung round the sun so I jump up ride it when it orbits me close. and I'll hide in its caves when the fear-dollies chase me- and I'll dip in the tides of bubbling foam. In a moment of tiny,                               of small                                             and of sooner....                              in a moment that's billions of miles away so before we've been born and before we've been lovers- a star somewhere tucked our whole story away. I'll find us a night cloud thick with our longings I'll puff up it's feathers and send it to sea. I'll send out a hope seed to sell to the watchmen, only to free it when they've gone to sleep. Yes, I'll pack it up safely and keep it's core glowing (for hope is a thing that you never keep kept.  ) As we sit in our garden, and we touch close our fingers As our babies are children and those children now men. The night scented orchid blooms urgent around us, like small fragrant fairies that scattered below. The 64th moon has given you passage, she's waiting impatient, I fear you must go. Don't look for me, darling, for I will be waiting on the bench in the garden where the night flowers bloom. Sahn 5/2/15   Thanks as always.
0
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
63 Moons
Under a blanket of  blackest wool tiny darting stab wounds bleed  yellow splinters through a night sky that borrowed it's blue from the bottom of the sea. -In the up there.        -In the out there. And on our wooden chairs painted crisp bay white chipped over the years, so the layers of paint becomes a calendar - we sit to watch 63 moons glide gracefully, circle daintily- We strain our necks and whisper tightly say the things that move from tongues to fingertips. Wild gestures meant to land sooner than the bitter words. Under the nebulae where you once gave me a ring which you slung round a planet with a ladder and rope. And you gave me a promise that's still hung round the sun so I jump up ride it when it orbits me close. and I'll hide in its caves when the fear-dollies chase me- and I'll dip in the tides of bubbling foam. In a moment of tiny,                               of small                                             and of sooner....                              in a moment that's billions of miles away so before we've been born and before we've been lovers- a star somewhere tucked our whole story away. I'll find us a night cloud thick with our longings I'll puff up it's feathers and send it to sea. I'll send out a hope seed to sell to the watchmen, only to free it when they've gone to sleep. Yes, I'll pack it up safely and keep it's core glowing (for hope is a thing that you never keep kept.  ) As we sit in our garden, and we touch close our fingers As our babies are children and those children now men. The night scented orchid blooms urgent around us, like small fragrant fairies that scattered below. The 64th moon has given you passage, she's waiting impatient, I fear you must go. Don't look for me, darling, for I will be waiting on the bench in the garden where the night flowers bloom. Sahn 5/2/15   Thanks as always.
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52
My eyes are windows to the living, I am not dead yet, Beyond the dead , I'm alive, Alive child, A wild child. My brows mean as MuMu says "Look into my eyes chile!" My mental state is a dollhouse... I play out scenes in my mind, As I'm seeing my way out the windows... Out of the window and into your worlds, Different stories, Your alive just like I... You know in a way we are alike, You & Me. Our souls brings the best of feelings, Flowers blooming in the spring, Oh i wish ... I close my windows, & my dollies fall back into an abyss, Chained away in a rusty old treasure chest, Oh God, Dear God, How can i make a dollhouse for the dollies to live in, I'm alive , But my dollies are in a chest of sin, I want to break the ribs and reach in to save my ole' friends, They are plastic but they are my only kin, **** they are my best friends, Lips big as blow up dolls, Their body weight is 80% of alcohol, It's how i made them... Their clothes are made out of The blood I bathe in, Latex leggings and waist clinchers, Pale as the purest sand, Balloon fake **** Contoured cheekbones, You would think they were Bratz clones... My dollies need a H.O.M.E
0
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 1:36 AM UTC
H.O.M.E pt 1.
I Think Ziggy’s playing guitar again. And walking on the wild side. I fancy a walk it’s a fine spring evening. And I’ve kept my self busy with half arsed house cleaning. Who knows what’s round the corner? What tattered hymns are being hummed from the leopard skin trolley dollies? Their kneeling for distraught drunken jockeys Discussions which inevitably create fraught tension. That which must be defused Catch a break brother you’re casting successive **** storms. Throw on the parker and thus to the shelter. Thirty six and dour and positively ***** Few dollars in the bank. Show patience and may receive what I deserve. I lean and drool, the swagger of Liam Gallagher and clean my shiny Excalibur. Indulge the kindness of strangers. The merging of unstable behaviour. Shake the snow globe and set tasers to stun I talk to the luscious Lucia. Tell her to skip the small talk and let’s get to marinating the pork Another dumb quirk, dumb dirt that comes from my cracked beak. She considerers me flippant and freakish. I am truly scrooge macduffed She returns to her posh rugby fan with blonde locks and a chin that could hold six pints. I lay this dog to die and meet some more familiar faces. All the venues are familiar. Avast the putrid fog of masculine sweat, the desperate air of ****** puns that drag and caress us in the arm pit of jacks sick giant. None of our jokes make any sense and were ducking and diving into primitive offence. The next few hours are unacceptable and the horror must have me in chained. If I could describe the rest Charlie Bronson would light my *** Woke up next day lying on the wing of a Heathrow aeroplane. Without my trousers. And several tubes in the near regions. And now it come to this. Prison showers and a Glaswegian mans kiss.
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Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
5AM Salute
I Think Ziggy’s playing guitar again. And walking on the wild side. I fancy a walk it’s a fine spring evening. And I’ve kept my self busy with half arsed house cleaning. Who knows what’s round the corner? What tattered hymns are being hummed from the leopard skin trolley dollies? Their kneeling for distraught drunken jockeys Discussions which inevitably create fraught tension. That which must be defused Catch a break brother you’re casting successive **** storms. Throw on the parker and thus to the shelter. Thirty six and dour and positively ***** Few dollars in the bank. Show patience and may receive what I deserve. I lean and drool, the swagger of Liam Gallagher and clean my shiny Excalibur. Indulge the kindness of strangers. The merging of unstable behaviour. Shake the snow globe and set tasers to stun I talk to the luscious Lucia. Tell her to skip the small talk and let’s get to marinating the pork Another dumb quirk, dumb dirt that comes from my cracked beak. She considerers me flippant and freakish. I am truly scrooge macduffed She returns to her posh rugby fan with blonde locks and a chin that could hold six pints. I lay this dog to die and meet some more familiar faces. All the venues are familiar. Avast the putrid fog of masculine sweat, the desperate air of ****** puns that drag and caress us in the arm pit of jacks sick giant. None of our jokes make any sense and were ducking and diving into primitive offence. The next few hours are unacceptable and the horror must have me in chained. If I could describe the rest Charlie Bronson would light my *** Woke up next day lying on the wing of a Heathrow aeroplane. Without my trousers. And several tubes in the near regions. And now it come to this. Prison showers and a Glaswegian mans kiss.
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Air left to rust when we speak it now is the time to postpone gladly over a shining, retaliatory absence in search of a space to shape a volatile figure that was a bridge how, humming our steps a valedictory making staccato. hurry before it catches us mid-flow, profuse with sustained harbors but they cannot see us here when they slit us from our canvas, how? all that radiates expels us out of this when no more; absorbed their breaths boldly stuck inside a body: a cage: a meeting: an encounter a path dollies in perfect capture frame by frame almost an ellipsis the world tonight blackened a gutter squalled by an unseen figure darting across, eviscerating the bargain: that in-between produced vastness.
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Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
Caecus
I can always feel the impossible expectations rolling off her skin like a bitter perfume. She has yet to realize, I am not the perfect little girl she hoped to raise. She makes me act as the play dough in her hands, as she molds the life she yearned for. A puppet I stand as she pulls the strings yelling "you have no idea what I've done for you!" but I do. She blinded me from reality and took me away when i was too young to understand. When Dad was "daddy" and Mom was "mommy" When everyone was a friend and dollies were pretty. She stole me away from all of that, and brought me to a place it's so cold it burns. It's a place the sun likes to hide from. Sometimes I wonder if she would expect so much if it had all been the same. If we were a family instead of tear drops in the ocean. And sometimes I see the shadow lift off her, as she realizes I am anything but perfect. But then she crawls back under that shadow, my shadow. For she has put me on a pedestal so high, I know falling off would **** me.
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Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
Impossible possibilities
White wall of flame Do you see it? ***** fingernails and coal eyes Do you see it? Gluttural groans and mouthes fixated in 'Oh' Skin that lies while butterflies dance on their skin Do you see it? Dollies in a line with the red kisses upon their heads Their wings opening around them and hanging Displaying the glory The power While weak eyes tremble with awe Do you see it? While the King and Queen argue The rook slithers Taking pawns and two Knights Scaled to something magnificent Alluring and burning alive Do you see it? The weasel has no Will The weasel will not be reborn No He will be ash under my feet While I pick my teeth of his flesh And when you see me disappear My failed consummation a dying echo I will come You will hear me roar And you will know I breathe again Do you see me
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Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 5:45 AM UTC
Do You See
Pale blue sky Endlessly tumbling clouds Sleepy and drowsy sun Waking young moon Hush, hush distant frogs’ croaks Swishy-swoshy, rustle of breeze blowing dry grasses. Every lives’ moment is a movie. Plush green fields Sweet melody of birds chirping The crunching sound of beach’s white sand underneath our feet Rush, rush sound of the sea Whistles of patrolling sea gulls The **** **** thumping of a heart. Every lives’ moment is a beautiful song Red haired dollies The backyard trees and swings The childhood crush The race to meet a tired returning mother. The humble lamp-lit dinners The late night story tales. Every lives’ memory is a classic painting As a clock counts lives’ time She drips memories, pictures and songs This beauty untold Infinite melodies unsung That only a keen and positive heart can hear.
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Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Life Is Beautiful
I close my eyes and dream of winters so pretty that even angels sigh at the scene cascading snowflakes softly falling, in shapes of doilies and paper ruffle dollies Winter hats and muffle mitts of red, snowman whispers as red sled rides go by carnival rides and children full of chide, what a wonderful world of white... A winter scent of magic, white deer and shadowed antlers of incandescent wood log cabins with fireplaces and verandas with copper foot welcome matts, come in make yourself comfortable while the kettle roars to life, tea toddler or coffee lover? Enter into our little jovial cottage story and stay a while.
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Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 10:37 PM UTC
A Winter Scene