"doted" poems
I would rather be hysterical than vulnerable
to what most people call love.
I would rather couple with strange women
on an Amsterdam getaway
than let one more man
try to own me.
I prefer to ignore my own psychodynamics
in favor of endless talking cure analysis
and occasional astrology cult ******
that promise to speed my eventual evolution
from wounded *** object to invulnverable starchild.
I don’t need a Beverly Hills shrink
to tell me my narcissism and depression and squeaky voice
are symbolic of never having the power
to set a boundary between me and my father
who doted over my puberty
with slobbering praise and veiled lust.
Everyone who knows me for more than a week
sees my father throwing me financial bones
instead of apologizing for what he did
and the more I take his money
the freer I feel
distanced by automobiles with dark-tinted windows,
a house with a skull and crossbones doormat,
a silver .45 under my pillow
and not one single ex-boyfriend
about whom I will ever say a kind word.
I have created emotional and psychological invulnerability;
all men are now my father
and all men pay the price
of never being loved by me
and I pay the price of never being able to let them love me.
Now I just play with partners
and when they inevitably start to use the “L” word
I start to run inside
and I bounce off the walls and mirrors
of my own emptiness
and I go on a photo safari to Africa
where I pretend to understand the meaning of life
and I put out restraining orders
against the men who insist that I explain
and I have come to rely on legal and monetary fences
to protect me from
the truth about my deep loneliness.
I’ve never had an ******
never said I love you twice to the same person
and I think
as long as the money’s there
I won’t have to.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
Dreams
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Pretty Little Cup Cake Store:
I walk through the door.
Somehow I think it will
Cheer me up.
A white iced-pink sprinkled cupcake
Will help me forget.
While unwrapping the trendy black and baby blue doted baking paper
Will bring back the past again.
But, even I know it is a ruse
A joke I play on myself.
You know the owners are some super hot soccer moms whose family invested in their latest project.
Those **** bakers with pretty white aprons
And size two retro-pink waitress uniforms;
Smiling and cooing at the lavender infused cake
That makes this treat go down so smooth.
A gluten-free icing with a garnish of kumquat.
This will land their pictures on the local news.
I am not a size two.
I will just as soon eat a nutty-buddy by Little Debbie
But, this trendy cupcake cafe, makes me feel I am one of those
Pretty ladies in the retro pink waitress uniform.
Kinda like a celebration, for a party of one.
I am not a hot pretty stick chick
I will buy four, five or six of those pretty cupcakes.
Pretending I am buying a hostess gift.
But, the truth.....
My husband forgot that we married
8 years ago this day.
I will pay too much for too little product: but the cake box is cute
I will sit in my car
Eating, till my teeth hurt.
I will rationalize; that I will cleanse tomorrow.
I will go home.
He will ask how I am, while staring at the TV.
"Shussh" he will say, "I'm trying to hear."
There is no use to remind him
He will play the tired "I'm-in-the-dog-house game."
I prefer stuffing four, five or six pretty little cupcakes
Into my mouth then listening
To his tired apologies, weak little lies and false promises of a planned
Surprise.
Instead; I will go to my room; then my private bath:
I will stick my fingers down my throat
And cough up my life.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
Somehow, I managed to get to my thirties
without eating a cherry --- a fresh one, anyway,
raw, untamed, unshelved, and forgodssake,
unmarischinoed.
I had them in pies, gooey, sickening, too much
syrup, and in sundaes --- again, not real, a turn-off,
saw people tie the stems in knots,
I had the impression, I think, that if people
had to do all the things they do with cherries
to make them flavorful, they must be really
**** straight out of the bag.
I made my mind up that they were unpleasant
and I would have nothing to do with them.
Even, or especially, in chocolate-covered cherries,
which my mother loved, so I wanted to love,
I could at best eat the chocolate around that
thick viscous sugary embryonic fluid
wherein lay the embittered, unborn and unloved cherry
and not the coveted prize.
So imagine that day when, careless at a cocktail
party, or at someone's house, hungry, I nibbled
at a fresh one, deep red and whole, gingerly working
my way around the stem and coming awake
to ohmygod what have I been missing all these years?
They still seem brand new now, every time, a delicacy,
something wealthy people indulge in and so not really
belonging to my world. They beg for the company
of wine and the most delicate cheeses, they ask to be shared
and doted on. The keep revealing themselves,
on the plate, unadorned, and they keep reminding me
to try something else that I have never tasted,
like complete and utter honesty, or looking at myself
naked, without judgment, even at the innermost
feminine parts, upside down with a mirror until I see why
they say making love for the first time is giving away
your cherry.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Little Penelope Persnicketty was a girl that grew up down the lane.
Her Mother doted on her so much, you would think her insane.
She took such care of her prized daughter pet.
Father never mentioned in the picture, a World War II vet.
Penelope Persnicketty was rather peculiar.
Every single thing she owned was pink, even down to her school ruler.
Petticoats, lace and stockings all a flamingo hue.
The dresses seemed so old fashion, never saw anything new.
She always seemed like a damsel in distress
Mother Persnicketty hand sewed every dress.
When she wasn't sewing , she held Penelope tight.
We rarely saw her out of her mother's controlling sight.
There was one thing Mother Persnicketty couldn't control.
It was puberty ravaging Penelope's little soul.
Hair appeared places it shouldn't.
******* Penelope wished for them but couldn't
Finally, the secrets began to unravel.
The Persnickettys packed up for some European travel.
In the fuss, we saw the forgery and what else her Pandora hemmed.
Made a daughter just by writing in the letter F instead of M.
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 10:53 PM UTC
In the office he was the Lion King,
The king of his workplace,
Highly respected and revered by his staff.
His personal secretary doted on him,
All his staff looked up to him.
His motto was simple,
"Be happy and make others happy."
At home he used the same motto,
His wife was a *****
But she called him a *****
She tried to manipulate him,
Rolled her eyes if he had flaws,
Did not expect him to help around the house,
In her eyes he always ended doing the wrong things,
He was happy to be a ***** for his wife,
He had peace,
They had three smart children whom he adored,
He didn't want to distrupt his family life and bank account,
No divorce for him,
And his beautiful secretary was there to love him.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC
Six purple tulips,
Stand proud and tall,
They are the lucky ones,
Who survived despite it all,
They are cared for and noticed,
Treated with respect,
They always get more water,
Than the others can get,
So no surprise then,
With treatment like this,
They bloom far more early,
And can afford to take a risk,
And is it really all that shocking,
That out of all these flowers,
The ones that are most beautiful,
Are the ones doted on for hours.
Five white tulips,
And one more with a hunch,
Sit lower in the vase,
The feeblest of the bunch,
They all knew from the start,
That they would never live,
As they were born in plainer robes,
And have nothing more to give,
One of their number,
Has already succumbed,
Looking down at the ground,
Determination numbed,
This flower was unlucky,
Turned away by those above,
When all it really needed,
Was help and love.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
I'm Tired of people telling me that I should smile in photographs
My resistance has got nothing to do with
An Attitude problem
or my attempt at
Appearing acutely fashionable
This is just the way I look
Most of the time
Shouldn’t what we choose to record
At least strive for Authenticity?
I'm just not interested in selling myself
Into the acceptable family comfort mode
Having my split-second cheery face sink in
Against The kitchen wall's
"calming" comfort scheme
To be doted on by ageing female relatives
and jovially mocked by visiting casual friends
If anything I don't want my past to be
Looked upon at all
Maybe it's the old story
of leaving home and the urge
To re-invent oneself
To Block out the old experiences, the old embarrassments
Freeing yourself to embark on a fresher tirade
of critical self-assessment
To be finally and victoriously
Free from the unsettling confines
of childhood
To engage yourself completely
in the waking,walking,working
Nightmare of maturity, responsibility
and devastating ambition.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 9:38 AM UTC
i always knew i would never be
"girlfriend material"
maybe the gods forgot to cut me carefully from the same cloth they doted out to everybody else
a thicker and more claustrophobic material
one that overheats and suffocates you
my mouth is a forest fire that ignites at the first sight of thunder ahead
other people use their words to heal and comfort their significant other while i'd always had a natural disposition of wielding my tongue as a freshly sharpened knife
i wanted to learn
i wanted to teach myself that in order to be in a relationship you have to treat the hardships like delicately gauzed wounds
changing them out every few hours and applying ointments to soothe and mend the broken flesh
but i don't know if it's because of my mother
who was never very nurturing
taking emotional withdrawals from me throughout my entire childhood
teaching me to cultivate my isolation and find comfort in my loneliness
i'd see the signs of her packing up her bags and departing from a mile away and the only survival method i knew was to let her go before she let me go, again
and again
and again
and again
i tried to mend myself for you
to be less broken down for you
i promised myself i'd be healthier and fight my depression like a true viking at battle
i knew i was never girlfriend material
i don't have the patience or understanding to learn how to nurture wounds
my natural instinct has always been to throw salt in them
to slit my throat and slit my throat and slit my throat until i bled out all of you entirely
it's not that i never knew how to love
but that i never knew how to love properly
caring too much and showing too little
displaying my fear of losing you with an anger that destroys everything in my path
instead of affection and vulnerability
my lovers never know if i love them
i display my feelings in watered down sentiments that take shape in the way i allow my body to mold into theirs under bedsheets
the love i carry though, suffocates me
it drowns my internal organs
and floods the entirety of my body
leaving me speechless and incapable of articulating how i feel or why i feel the way that i do
in turn i appear cold to the touch
and that is how i knew i was never girlfriend material
i want to lay down on train tracks and sacrifice my body
again
and
again
until i get it right
but i fear it only leaves me in poorer condition than the last
i'm sorry i don't know how to love you properly
i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry
you see, i'm just not "girlfriend material"
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
As I stood,
on the wet street
in solitude, behind
the external lens
in my hands,
I could hear the passing
of painted, ticking clock hands
as they whispered and waved
through static noise
from precipitation
around me–
I wondered,
if a past soul
of mine, contributed
to a time of white flight,
when a financial crisis
sprawled like a crack
on a windshield, from a chip
in glass, created
by another battle
between politicians.
My present soul,
resides,
in Heidelberg,
where
stories of others
become painted dots
on buildings
climbing walls
like spiders,
their painted eyes
against the stark white,
doted house
seeing all.
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 2:49 PM UTC
No, I don't want a kiss.
I don't want to be attached to you all of the time.
You knew what you were getting into.
Or did you think you were special,
Because you are.
But that doesn't change my nature.
You see me as a belonging to be doted.
I see you as a pest,
But your devoted.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
Needless, pose a question:
Miracles save themselves...
Long in the tooth, looking for a blessing
Worlds to weigh, with the voice of what delves?
Minus the stone
The rue of visits and cares...
To awaken in the arms of harmony
History to a dare, to lend the kindness of what fares?
Special...
And doted upon, like a dream can feed...?
The spareness of speed in the eye, of what will
To sakes aled, and meant, to be the end of all in heed...
The pout of summation, to which we will know intimation?
Praises be, cares see, the coming order to a least...
At worthy faces, in a common hope, to live the life of sin?
Like a weary lover was, the only force of decency to cease...
Of a silent offer, of season and risk...
To these calls of opportunity, the mated chance
Of cause curious, and questioning the weight of a reason's wish
Paced with the passion of deliberateness, is a wish a saving, romance?
Feb 3, 2023
Feb 3, 2023 at 4:00 PM UTC
He takes her love to meet his need
this bachelor is a selfish breed
she'll tolerate his cruelty for affection;
She's walked on eggshells, feeling sad
and breaking down she sees her dad
but why the anger, why all the correction?
Locked inside her cloud of love
so aimlessly she'll float above
the memories- each time his rage exploded;
and never being good enough
perplexed at why he seems so gruff
when only yesterday he swooned and doted.
She, the ever-loving type
would jump to fix his every gripe
and dance around him while his heart was hurtin'
believing then, "it must be me"
the source of all his angst, you see
but now she knows the truth, of this she's certain.
Taking one last chance she'll try
to reach out to this troubled guy
and longing to become his heart's desire
staged to win his softer side
she'll do her best to smile and hide
the fear, this saintly dear, her heart's a liar.
Never will there ever be
a stable point where they are free
to be, although she'd hoped their love was certain;
the disapproval in his eyes
is something she should recognize
it's been disguised until the final curtain
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
'"Cause I'm your lady
And you're my man
Whenever you reach for me
I'll do all that I can"
Just found out—
Celine Dion's man
Her husband, Rene Angelil
Passed away last Thursday
The love between them
Had always been louder
Than a whisper
And they were never far away
But not this time, I feel sad
According to her
He was her many guiding angels
Her only "boyfriend"
Although he was much older
She doted him like a mother
Figure, and he allowed her
In public, many kisses
Tender touches
Theatric renewed vows
All full of Titanic's fondness
Now I've realized
Only in love, a man owns
A woman, and a woman can
Own a man. Love, and love only
A lot of affections involved
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC
My imaginary friend climbs into bed with me and whispers in my ear every time I try to sleep. We dress in night-time: pull on black stockings, snap them around half-moon thighs.
We ladder the sky
and splinter our spines.
There are things we don't talk about (because we are the gaps between reality that still believe in selkes and Cornish piskies)
but for years we have been panning for dreams.
Doubt burns like fuse-wires but God sometimes freezes the electricity.
She crosses her fingers when she promises to believe. (That's the bargain). She talks to Him each hour
but He never replies
and she is so used to being doted on.
We pretend we are dead.
Just for tonight.
She doesn't think she matters:
mourning for the moon - her halo of humidity.
She traces the clouds' edges with highlighter.
I balance her morning-massacre mind with the inaugural thrum of a threatening migraine. I am not used to her megaphone chest and she forces our Scorpio symphony down my throat like an over-active heartbeat. (That's what frightens God).
She told me not to stick quills to my back,
said the weight of wings would only weigh me down.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Explosions rocketed themselves skyward.
They polka doted the worlds tapestry; purposeful stains.
The sun hadn’t fully set yet.
To the west the sky was warm.
And skeletons could be seen floating,
long after the sparkle and the boom had dissipated.
Like dandelions gone to seed.
The sky celebrates with us
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:22 PM UTC
-*If I were ***** who would I choose?*
The lovely Edmund treated her kind
Indeed, kind he was in her mind
He was protective of her
His words were of comfort
She doted on him so much
That seeing him with another depressed her
The charming Henry grew fond of her
On her gentleness and modesty he dwelled
In her modest and elegant manners, he found charm
There was a sweetness to her which felt warm
And Henry was seduced by such gentleness
He found her timidity so delightful
That for her, he harboured feelings so soon
Yet in Fanny’s innocent eyes
Crawford’s flirtations led to his own demise
Not indifferent to what seemed to be sincere efforts
He forcing his love on her however proved just worse
She was too much convinced of his pretence
In his endeavour, she found not grace but nonsense
His unsteadiness
Her ineffable kindness
They were too much different
On such belief, she wouldn’t be bent
On the other hand
There stood Edmund, oh dear Edmund
He cared about her so deeply
But his attachment was merely brotherly
Knowing such truth saddened her immensely
Yet she’d rather be with him as a sister
Than not be with him at all
He was too virtuous to be deceived
The goodness of her heart dictated to choose none
Poor Edmund was blinded by Mary’s doings
As calculated as they were, they promised sufferings
Edmund could think of no woman but Mary to be his wife
His idea of her was exceedingly flattering; what a plight
A hurt ***** could not change his mind
Her unwavering support never left his side
And the proud Henry Crawford
What to say of his ardent courtship?
At some point, vulnerable ***** could fall for him
But she never did, not even once
He changed for her in manners and words
But to defy one’s true nature would be to lie to oneself
Temptations so strong
In the presence of an interested Mrs Rushworth
Needless to say; his true colours showed, infidelity ensued
In the end, who to choose?
If I were in Fanny’s shoes
It certainly wouldn’t be Henry
Such a **** doesn’t deserve a pure soul like *****
Though I don’t doubt that he truly fell for her
He ruined all chances of being with her
His incessant words of love were received with pain
He tried to win her affection in vain
But to try to gain a girl’s heart with flowery talks
This is an unwise move, it is too much
Thank God, Edmund realised his error in the end
But can he redeem himself when he showed so poor a judgement?
I doubt so; and I dare question his change of heart
His infatuation for Mary faded, and his love for ***** grew so fast
Does it even make sense to have one’s eyes opened that fast?
I dare answer in the negative
This said, none of them deserve *****
If I were ***** I’d choose none...
-15/05/10
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
There was a star in life
agreed, it was much loved
when it sank, it did sink.
Look at the sky’s vastness,
so many stars have broken away
so many loved ones it has lost
the lost ones, were they ever found?
But tell me, for the broken stars
does the sky ever grieve?
That which is past, is gone.
There was a flower in life
which, I doted everyday on
when it dried, it dried away.
Look at the garden’s breast,
dried, many of its saplings have
welted, many of its flowers have
that which welted, did it ever bloom?
But tell me, for dried flowers
does the garden create an uproar?
That which is past, is gone.
There was a cup of wine in life
which, you gave your heart and soul for
when it broke, it did break.
Look at the winehouse’s courtyard
shaken, where many cups are
fall, and merge with the ground
that which fall, do they ever rise?
But tell me, for broken cups
does the winehouse ever regret?
That which is past, is gone.
Soft mud, we are made of,
wine drops do tend to fall.
A short life, we have come with,
winecups do tend to break.
Yet, inside the winehouse
there is a winepot, there are winecups.
Those, struck by intoxication
do splurge away on the wine.
He’s a raw drinker,
whose affection escapes no cup,
one who has burnt from true wine
does he ever shout, or scream?
That which is past, is gone.
By- Mohit Cristo Kalwadia
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 7:39 AM UTC
Transfused with a doted blood
Stainless pattern of the love
Color in red and spiral devotion
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Transfused with angelic poison
Faintless on the road to the crucifix
Color in blue the trial attributions
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Transfused with textual infusion
Sainted in hedonistic space fields
Color in kaleidescope spins
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Transfused with a dared death
Bright visions of another world
Color of purple enlighten
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 4:45 AM UTC
Black eyelids of the night,
Sing their inward sleepy song,
To the ocean of silence far below,
Whose wavelets of dreams are a medicine to the past days wounds.
Nights brow is doted with dew,
Dew whose origin,
Same to that of crystal caves bright blue and purple lights,
Is a perfect reflection of the Earth's simplicity.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
Days awake in unwell sleeping patterns,
Mechanical days are flourishing, I've
Kinda wished everything wasn't so fast;
I kinda wish I wasn't alive.
I was taken away within stabilization,
Carried in the means of unstable air.
Bury me, I scream, reassurance is blared,
I open in the truths of holding no care.
I doted on ideations,
Creating my world wielded in shame.
Crested on my darkest demons,
Resting with every ounce of blame.
My molecules are crying out,
"The world uses broken tools"
If only this world understood me,
And the impulsivity of oncoming abuse.
Inside I am an unkempt person,
And days are passing more than I know.
I gifted your works with my happiness,
And it is now time that I let you go.
I can't forgive you but I can
Forgive myself for loving you.
Goodbye mom
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC
The only thing I did today…
I will never be one of the great ones.
She proclaimed, “Mediocre.”
I have licked the lollipop of
mediocrity, the sweetness pulled me in.
The never trying harder, became easier.
Laying down, lying about laying down.
I will go nowhere, and nowhere will
welcome me.
For I am as mediocre as any member
of nowhere can be. The machine of
dull people will **** me in, another
cog in slow motion doing nothing.
I will never be quoted, nor doted upon
by any hero. Never a leading lady
just the shadow around the spotlight.
Mediocrity is an evil friend,
one who I welcomed into my head.
No matter how much I plod him,
he never pays his rent.
Me and mediocrity are fated betrothed,
but no matter because I’ve forgotten
what light looks like. And striving to see
is forbidden by mediocrity and me.
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 10:09 PM UTC
I poured a drop of water
on my daisy
and watched for it
to bloom
It didn't sprout fast enough
so I sprinkled away
with an extra helping of water
To follow up, I fertilized
Still, it was not as colorful
as it seemed it was meant to be
I doted on it
Extra sunshine
Extra dirt
Extra air
But didn't you know
that plants could talk?
It shook
one of its leaves at me,
another one was like a hand perched
upon its stem
as it glared at me without eyes
Its golden mane of petals
surrounded its pale, flowery face
like a halo surrounds the sun
and it said
"Are you trying to **** me?"
"Did you ever hear of killing someone with kindness?"
"Thank you for your good intentions, but....they aren't that good"
"Let me grow"
"Let me be for now"
"Let me come into my own"
I heeded it's advice
never noticing it nearly
withered and shriveled in its fight
but then I backed off
and before I knew it
the flower bloomed to height!
Ok, so this didn't really happen
But the moral of the story is......
Sometimes, you have to stand back
and let things happen on their own
as you can be more of a hindrance
than you are a help
A lesson, I had to learn in life
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 7:34 PM UTC
Venturesome tevv
vvant to make you
a 3rd time maker
S R T H D
T E C E
O U T
saturated && doted on;
vvith boundlessness.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
A crack in my skin,
you glued it back together.
a blemish with my mind,
you fixed it by force.
a doll
that's what you wanted from me
compliant. complacent.
easily doted in affections
and sacred anecdotes.
you were devout to me,
but weren't you that way with all your dolls,
with all of your collections?
I was promised to be your favorite,
but a favorite isn't pushed to the back,
kept in an attic with no golden rays
willing to shine on the broken skin.
your favorite wasn't ignored.
I wasn't your favorite, but perhaps that was for the best.
you're a dollmaker,
a cruel one with
tenebrous standards, ehtics.
and help those who are your
f a v o r i t e creations;
as every day passes by,
I thank myself for
denying your quips any longer,
your routines,
the melodies of your lackluster
yet pretty promises.
I was a doll, yours to be exact,
but pretty promises with no
density, and formidable
abandonment and ignorance
shall only go so far.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 12:43 PM UTC