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Anne J Oct 2018
Strings, strings, wrapping around porcelain skin,
For why does the bruises not show?
With a waist, hip, and two legs that are so thin,
For why does the skin always glow?
Hair that never sheds, nor grows, nor messes,
For why does the girl not wash it?
With a merry face that still never truly expresses,
For why does the face not show even a slight fit?
Stoic, conjoined, the feet never stomping,
For why does the limbs never feel frostbit?
Perhaps it is a lie that the being is a girl,
As it is only with strings that she can ever twirl.
I did this about two weeks ago, as the poem you gotta send in order to the join the site. I hope y'all liked it. Does this count as a Halloween story?
A raggedy old doll,
all ***** and dusty,
lying on the floor of old cabin.
When snuggled at night,
he sat up and sang,
a verse of the spellbook
of Sabians!

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“My heart warmed of her presence,”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“Her flowering scents so pleasant,”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“My mind about a treasure,”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“My fortune is her pleasure,”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“Lost I am you see?”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“Sun-ray crowned was she!”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“Oh golden haired my raven!”

Just before dawn,
he sat up in bed,
to look upon his
new little girl.
Shined-up his button eyes,
and tilted his head…
then snuggled back into her curls.
Poetic tale
CK Baker Feb 2017
late night by the holland sill
white framed and frilled
alongside the meadow
down by the grand
where cat fish
and cow pies
and silly yellow bees
make their stay

there are swings now
and an empty barn
(with quiet corners
and broken walls)
echoing chambers
that speak to the past
...and little dogs
not big ones

the plaster cracks
and wheat sways
from a warm west wind
it’s about time
for that late afternoon pour
you know how it cleans the soul
old percy would say

and flanders
the holder of those pigs
who fed us good
with sow and milk
as we plowed the
dusty fields
into the
hot summer sun

i can still hear the screams
of river dreams
the grand slams
and flints run dry
the barks
and breaks
and bends
a world past
with forbes
and dolls
and crab apple trees

think i’ll take a trip
up the back lane

they’ve cut the brush
and opened the line
Mugerwa Muzamil Feb 2018
In this dark night
I still feel I possess my shadow
I feel it linger fiercely
Palpating my ego
Walking tall on walls
Like shadows of wavy flames
Of a heated bonfire
The night superimposes its darkness over my shadow
Waiting to prowl in the dawn
Beneath the blossoming sunrise
Sharp beams of light spread
In this heat wave I can still feel
The coldness of my tender breath
Pry the  demons who want to undo
my philosophy
Smother my dreams to fading mist
Demons latent in a soulless shadow
I can still unleash my fettered self
Because no light no shadow.
Vexren4000 Jul 2018
Cardboard figurines,
Walking through life,
Following the leader,
Monkey see monkey do,
Following the flow,
Never resisting the control,
Manipulated by multiple hands,
With dark intentions,
Those poor figurines,
Think they make their own choices.

©BAS
Ian ortega Jan 21
Miss Daisy is what I call her,
Having a doll, but only a head.
She never complains and she never is lonely,
Because this doll head is never alone.
When I bought her came also Miss Darlyn,
Another head for the price of one.
she remains anon Nov 2018
Little doll women
with little doll smarts
live in little doll houses
with broken hearts.
Dolls get played
night and day
so that’s why I stay in
and waste away.
Made of fakeness,
easily snapped
*****, lying
clothes unwrapped.
It’s no wonder their smiles are painted on
when daily routines
become no more than a yawn.
Make the bed
wash the dishes,
cry into the sink
wish you’d drop dead.
Dress up nice,
go to the party.
feel like a disaster
while smiling smartly.
It’s all child’s play
nothing more
until you get tired of walking down the
corridors.
A doll is good
she’s sitting pretty,
and wallowing in
her own self pity.
Life is lived in movie scenes
until you get tired
of living the dream.
Dreams of perfection
dreams of plastic
the reality of my world;
it’s all quite tragic.
city of flips May 2018
please be impatient with me for I am Female, Age 19   Please be impatient with me.  Three quarters woman in a body, a quartered quartet.  The crying viola, off tempo, present but unavailable.  The boys want me. The men, more, more.  The women most of all.  The American Girl dolls on the shelf dusty, witnesses to all my demander’s impatience to take, to own, possess & desire my poses all to pleasure them, wanting  many morsos (small bites).  
Then, when discarded, my body reeks of
con-f u s i o n.  A perfect conjugation,  an imperfect conjunction;  Conning my mind into letting my body be-fused.  

The dolls weep real tears in the city of my mind;  flipping out, they too, are impatient with me, and flip me off for they have no good words to express their utter chagrin.
quinn silverman Nov 2018
the antiques sitting here
collecting dust in their crevices
the forever cycle of fake smiles
placed on the plastered
eyes shoved in the hollowness of it
inanimate but still deserving of feelings
so i cry when i look at them
waiting for a whisper
waiting for them to say
“remember that time when..”

but i envy them
not to be cursed with a soul
because humanity is pitiful
finding empathy in the inanimate
feeling lonely enough to think an
old chair is sad,
jealous of replacement
i envy the antiques
Tommy Randell Dec 2014
My tongue births an aural dream
In the language of meaning making
Metaphors the need

My words presage a time to come
Of needs between us
Increasingly saying too much

Standing here one hand on the sky
In a while though I resist
My eyes too spill over into flame

The throat once a thing of bone
Now fluid verges on a scream
***** from deep down your half-eaten juices

We are dolls in chains
Your hand in mine
What forgiveness is there, what crime?

In the Oral Tradition of lips meeting
Where does it say
We cannot tie our tongues together?

And who will then
Question the answer of our needs?
Kissing with lightning we fork and are one.
SilentAce Oct 2015
Girls wear pink.
Boys wear blue.
Girls wear dresses.
Boys do not.
Girls like to wear makeup.
Boys like to play in the dirt.
Girls want dolls.
Boys want toy cars.
Girls like boys.
Boys like girls.
Samantha is a girl’s name.
Samuel is a boy’s name.

This is what some were taught, this is what some grew up only knowing.

Now meet Sam.  

Sam’s favorite color is pink.
Sam loathes wearing dresses.
But sometimes does not.
Sam likes to get *****.
But always likes to wear lipstick.
Sam likes dolls.
But plays with cars too.
Sam likes boys.
But likes girls too.
What is Sam?
A girl or a boy?

Go ahead. Check the box.
Female or Male?
I thought you knew the rules?
So pick.  

Pink?
Or blue?
Boy or Girl?

Or just wait until Sam can tell you, I’m sure they’ll know the answer better than you.
M May 2018
List what i saw today and what happened Today:
Man walked by
hole in Wall
She is not talking????
daily Diary gone
Found the pictures don't want to say about It
Eyes? They look like eyes I don't really know [Could be fake
Lots of dolls [Im taking]
Who is Abi?????
Doing lots of stuff

Ok i Just found something it is her diary I guess It was not missing? They are watching someone but i'm confused who I think it might be her crush but it's a bunch of people So maybe not?? Updates soon

15 Missing I think

On new Medication says I will be better soon. Will make videos when im better Peace out
Jasmine Somers Sep 2016
I catch you sitting at the diner counter again at 2am, the fourth day in a row. The waitress comes over and hands you a black coffee. I stare, but you don’t turn around and catch me looking. You’re glaring into the mug, like somehow you’ll drown in the warm murky mix. Like somehow if you keep looking your problems will dissipate into the rising steam. Like somehow it’s the answer you’ve been searching for since you were born. You wanted an answer. Something that would make everything come full circle. It’s been years of you driving down an endless highway, passing every exit because you don’t know how to stay in one place. Even ghost towns won’t harbor something so deeply damaged. A person who can only pull the emergency break when they’re afraid they might crash. Crash into what? Not everything walking by you is a catastrophe.  Accidents only occur when you forget to pay attention. Just like how you forgot that your side door mirrors were broken. Those objects are not closer than they appear. You tried to slow down but they only seemed further away. Everything you’re trying to hold on to is slipping through your hands the way sand falls through the hourglass. Tick tock. Did you forget that people need affection if you want them to stay? They are not dolls you can glass-case until you feel like playing with them again. Not everybody enjoys being a toy. How long has it been since someone sat in the passenger seat? The car rides must be lonely when there’s no one around to fill the silence. You can blast the radio as loud as you want to but that won’t block out the hollow feeling in your chest. The one that sits where your heart is supposed to be. Something that music can’t fill. Your mother once told you that history repeats itself but did she mention that only happens when you refuse to change the scenery? If you always stay on the same road you’re never going to snap out of it. Break the curse. Realize that love is sitting at the base of every exit if you weren’t so scared of swerving into oncoming traffic. The only head-on collision that’s going to happen is when you grow too tired of driving alone that you forget to keep your eyes on the road. When you realize you placed yourself in your own **** and your breaks finally give out. When you fall asleep at the wheel and never wake up because you were terrified of letting somebody else steer.
Francie Lynch Dec 2017
You've heard this tale
A thousand times,
Take one more spin,
This version's mine.
And this telling tale
Is its first time.
My theme is fitting,
The message sublime,
For the Season of giving,
And gifting one's time.

For my first Christmas
I was three,
But the warmth on that night
Never cooled,
And indeed,
It was
A cold Christmas Eve.

We stuck branches of pine
In a bucket of sand,
That's the snapshot I've got
Of our Christrmas tree then.
Here's the memory that Eve
Of a lad of three,
Yet this story is true,
It's a family heirloom.

We weren't many then,
There was Mammy and Daddy
And six children, soon seven.
Daddy was an Operator
Of cranes and loaders
Dirt packers and graders.
He was working North,
Far North,
Manning a dozer,
Distant from family
Near the Quebec border.
That's where he was
Days before,
When his pant-leg caught fire,
When the diesel was spilled.

We were only three months
In our chosen homeland,
It was 1958,
And fresh from Ireland.

No way to get to him,
Nor him to get home,
No car,  no friends yet,
Little money, no phone.
Yet somebody knew
We were out on our own.

And the snow started falling,
It was Christmas Eve,
I stood at the window,
Saw the snow fill the trees.
I was still and staring,
At what I don't know,
But I remember quite vividly
All that I saw.

Like a scene from a movie
Starring Barry or Bing,
A fire-engine red no-top
Stopped and parked with high beams,
Highlighting the snow,
On that Christmas Eve.

A big man in a red suit
Slid off of the trunk,
Literally carrying a sack,
And calling, **! **!
The family joined me
At the window to see
The big man's helpers
Carry a big Christmas Tree.

When they entered the house
Kevin, Sean, Gerald and I,
Cowered and crouched
Behind the second-hand couch.
We must have resembled
Three monkeys plus me;
I hadn't a clue,
I was dumb-founded and three.

In through the front door
They clattered and sang,
Unloading their boxes
Of food, clothes and toys,
*****, bats and dolls
For two girls and four boys;
And I'm sure there was something
For the coming bundle of joy.

I don't remember their departure,
Or where he went,
But they called Merry Christmas
And left all else unsaid.

Mammy understood
Some good persons had called,
Who'd heard of our plight
And couldn't be calmed
Til they knew for certain
We'd some peace in our storm.

So, that's my first Christmas,
Since then this my creed:
The gift of giving
Isn't under the Tree
.
cait-cait Oct 2018
the devil’s eyes are blue ,
from when they made him up in heaven ,

but he keeps his girls like toys,
strewn,
             broken
and like dolls, they lay in piles.

you know,
ive always kept my mouth closed ,
and my sharp teeth dulled,
for i have been forced to wear a smile
to cover up each bruise .

so how come,
when
he looks at her like a dog ,
you all just let him bite?

do you think he ever kissed his wife’s wounds?

because
you know, we know that you men all kiss his,
right?
it is time to be angry. It is time for women to bite and kick and scream and make everyone sorry for ever thinking that any of this was okay. I’m sorry Doctor Ford.
Sofia Paderes Sep 2018
She dreamt about you last week.

I nibbled on my breakfast today -- bread and a thinly sliced orange. It seemed enough at the moment, but I snapped somewhere. I let her tell me off for being unreasonable while her hands did dishes the way you taught her to. She never wastes water.

She said you were both running.

This morning she had tiny baby dolls dangling from her ears. Being seen doesn't bother her anymore as much as it used to, but that doesn't matter to you because you always saw her. And I'd like to think you still do. She was beautiful today. And always.

She laughed softly. "Imagine her running," she said. But somehow, I could.

Last week, she got a bright red alarm clock with a built-in radio. Old songs as much as possible, please -- the soundtrack of our late nights. The first night she figured out how to work it, I lay on the bed the same way you used to, one leg crossed and one arm over my eyes, laughing. Did you laugh? I can copy your laugh too, you know.

She said you both knew why you were running.

It's a jungle in there, and I'm not always allowed to explore. But sometimes, she lets me cross a river. Lets me through some vines. And I tell her, "Baby, I'll stand out here with my little torch and wait out the rains. I'll help you map this place out. I'm a little lost in here, but I'm not leaving until these footprints I'm following lead me right next to you." She just smiles. Did you know that your footprints are there, too? They're all over the place.

She said you made it into each other's arms.

I hadn't cried over you in a long, long time but that Sunday morning I drew her in close and we dampened each other's shoulders. Laughed a little. Cried some more. Got dressed. Carried on.

I miss having you in my dreams too, but it was nice of you to say hello. Know that you are always welcome. Maybe next time you'll stay a bit longer. We'll have your coffee ready.

Thank you. Please, come again.
Her gravestone says "You will always be loved". Miss you, Lola Chichi. Just when I thought I had nothing to write about you anymore, this poem came.
Dark Fjord Dec 2016
Happy, as our dreams inspired, never to grow older

moving apart, never to see, as being ‘any purer’,  
Your dolls ruby blue eyes
Traveled down in the oceans grenadine;

Below thy reels lifting
    as we pulled them legs off
between them knees new green
fell from a heart, the silvery spoon.
foreveryouth
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