I recall from some time ago
a pink plastic tea set
a white plastic rocking chair
and a yellow plastic pony
with blue plastic hair,
     which
was impossible to untangle
except for with the green plastic brush
that belonged to my blonde barbie doll
out of her plastic vanity cabinet
beneath her plastic vanity mirror,
     which
she checked her makeup in
before meeting her plastic boyfriend
in his plastic van
to go to a plastic diner
that served plastic pizza,
     which
was really just a sticker
on a tiny plastic plate
that would get lost in the bottom
of my plastic toybox,
     which
had a plastic lid
that was also my sailboat
that brought me to a plastic castle
with a plastic princess
who had the prettiest plastic eyes
and the most elaborate plastic dress
and the shiniest plastic crown,
     which
was the envy of all the plastic women
in the entire plastic kingdom,
     which
was really just a plastic castle
surrounded by an enchanted plastic forest
filled with furry plastic creatures
all atop a clear plastic box,
     which
held the plastic dishes
and plastic glasses
and plastic food
in case a feast should be thrown
for an unexpected plastic guest
from a plastic kingdom in the far east,
     which
was really just a plastic plate
placed on the plastic-coated windowsill,
     from which
I would peer into the blue sky
through broken plastic binoculars
while standing on a yellow and green plastic step stool,
     which
when turned upside down
became not simply a make-shift plastic sailboat,
but a glorious, luxury plastic cruise liner
for my pretty plastic dolls

     and I would board my toybox lid
     and we would sail into a perfect plastic horizon

     which
was really just a white plastic baby gate
that kept me from tumbling
into the world downstairs
where things are wooden
and glass
and cloth
but not plastic

for plastic is synthetic
and plastic is superficial
and plastic looks bad
against gilded wallpaper

but plastic is cheaper
and plastic is safer
and plastic is durable
and childhood is plastic

As Fish swam
It met a strange piece of plastic
Afloat above the surface
That seemed to curve slightly beneath the water
Fish swam to it
Despite the fear
And the piece of plastic didn’t move
So Fish became intrigued
And it swam to its center
Poking at it with its flat eyes
Days went on
And Fish rested with the plastic
Feeling at peace with it
And so it became Plastic
And Fish stayed friendly with Plastic
No matter how much bigger or different it was
Fish spoke to Plastic nonetheless
It felt dependent on it
It felt comfortable and happy
Something that Fish had not felt from its cold lake surrounding it
Until
One fatal day
Plastic dashed
Almost parting the water of the lake
Too fast for Fish to swim after it
And as it went to catch its friend
Fish started to feel things it had felt before
And it felt betrayed
Alone
As if it had wasted time
On a simple piece of plastic
So it swam until it couldn’t anymore for Plastic
And soon stopped and tried to forget about Plastic
Fish finally went back home
Lonesome days went by
Fish went on with its life
Struggling to feel content with what it was doing
On its own
Until one fatal day
Fish left its home
And saw a piece of plastic
The same piece of plastic it remembered
But it was a little different
With more scratches and some seaweed attached to it
So now Fish swam towards Plastic excitedly
And swam to the surface when it reached Plastic
And looked above the water
And saw that Plastic had long sails
Ropes attached
And it looked so slick and modern
It was massive too
Fish swam back down
It saw so much more of Plastic
So much more than Fish had never imagined
Which set them apart even more
Which made them so much more different
So Fish never went close to Plastic again
It still felt betrayal
Even more afraid now
And remembered the days that followed Plastic's sudden leave
Like a sharp knife to its tiny, beating heart
Because Plastic grew up and different
And Plastic reminded Fish of many things
Like misunderstanding
Like disappointment
And it didn’t want to feel like that ever again
So it never went close to Plastic again
It never left again
But it felt... distant
And it was painful to wonder what Plastic and Fish could have done together
And so Fish tried once more
And Plastic seemed pleased
For it did not move
And so Fish tried once more
And this time it felt something
A strange tension between the two
But then
That night
In confusion of whether the feeling was good or not
Fish remembered how much it hurt
To be left by Plastic
To be alone again
So suddenly
And it felt afraid that Plastic might not be as happy to be around Fish as Fish was to be around Plastic
And now Fish waits for Plastic to see through the litter in the lake
And finally dash for Fish

get me a plastic girl,
and i'll sing to her my plastic words
i'll giver her the plastic world

and we'll live in a plastic house
with a plastic cat and a plastic mouse
a plastic heart for a plastic mouth

plastic inside, and plastic out
an elastic skin for a fancy crowd

a plastic window and a plastic couch
where i'll sit alone with my plastic doubts

watching the plastic rain cold and loud
drinking away the plastic south

filling myself with that plastic asteroid
i hear a plastic voice and black plastic joy

i have a plastic sorrow and my plastic toys
there's no tomorrow just this plastic void

can you see the smile and my plastic poise
painted classic pink on my plastic floyd

plastic me in this plastic noise,
a plastic droid.

©writeweird

With each new holiday,
we are told to purchase,
fake plastic memories
for a fake plastic purpose.

Fake Plastic trees
for Christmas to usher.
Fake Plastic hearts
for Valentine's lovers.

Fake Plastic wreaths
for a New Year’s front door.
Fake Plastic pumpkins
for Halloween decor.

For Easter we have
fake plastic eggs
and fake plastic grass
fake plastic time, for us to pass.

Now we have plastic oceans
and plastic rain.
plastic forests
and plastic terrains.

Plastic is what the fish and whales feast on.
Plastic is what we base our economy on.

Plastic plates with plastic silverware,
Plastic here, plastic everywhere.

A fake plastic earth will be forming soon.
With a fake plastic sun and fake plastic moon

~Many people rely on the convenient, easy ways of living in this age of fast food, plastic packaging and rapid development. Most people do not care to see why they live the way they do or what it takes to live in such a way. Toxic pollutants leaching into our earth and water should not be worth the convenience! Third world women working in dusty, cramped factories to make designer purses for fifteen year old girls. Garbage is America’s biggest export and it ends up in China, on the coast of Somalia... anywhere that American citizens won’t be bothered to see it.

~What does it mean to buy a pack of plastic razors? Some metal, some chemicals, some plastic, more plastic for packaging. Use a razor a few times and toss it in the garbage. Somewhere, maybe at La Chureca, someone will pull the rusted metal and plastic from the landfill. They might make one US dollar per day collecting scraps of aluminum, glass, plastic and other scrap metals. What does it mean to wear deodorant? The plastic stick isn’t reusable. The ingredients are highly toxic. Aluminum-based antiperspirants have been linked to Alzheimer's and cancer. Soap comes in plastic bottles, coffee makers made of plastic, water bottles made of plastic… hell, my plastic shower curtain came wrapped in plastic packaging.

~Americans are lucky. Indoor plumbing with quality water. Green lawns and exotic flower beds. Buy and use, throw away and repeat. Big corporations pay off politicians to pollute. Industrial waste, land erosion, low air quality, pesticides. Why are we so quick to trust an artificial sweetener being promoted by a company that makes poison? They call you a hippy, a conspiracy theorist. They tell you that you only live once and to stop being so worried about it all. I ask them, how can you look away? Deforestation and destruction are all around. Those that profit are not concerned with what happens to the land after the loggers and miners have left the ground scarred and desolate.

~Modern living is a hoax. Yeah, you get around quick in your car but at what cost? Carbon dioxide, greenhouse gasses choking us and everything alive that lives with us and cannot speak. Can’t you walk to the corner store? Can’t you grow a few things in the garden or in the windowsill? When was the last time you saw a sunset and didn’t take a picture of it? Dairy cows packed together so tight they can’t turn around for your glass of milk. The disconnect is everywhere. Overpopulation. Overconsumption. People don’t care.

~They can choose. They can choose paper over plastic. They can buy a water filter instead of 20 plastic bottles. They can bike to work. Anyone can lessen their impact, anyone can think more deeply and live more sustainably. But we’ve made it so easy to be lazy. We’ve become so dependent that we’re forgetting to use technological gains to make the way we do things better. We’ve come so far that we’re forgetting what brought us here.

~

‘We are slaves in the sense that we depend for our daily survival upon an expand-or-expire agro-industrial empire – a crackpot machine – that the specialists cannot comprehend and the managers cannot manage. Which is, furthermore, devouring world resources at an exponential rate.’ Edward Abbey

‘In the developing world, the problem of population is seen less as a matter of human numbers than of western overconsumption. Yet within the development community, the only solution to the problems of the developing world is to export the same unsustainable economic model fuelling the overconsumption of the West.’ Kavita Ramdas

‘Water and air, the two essential fluids on which all life depends, have become global garbage cans.’ Jacques-Yves Cousteau

‘Globalisation, which attempts to amalgamate every local, regional, and national economy into a single world system, requires homogenising locally adapted forms of agriculture, replacing them with an industrial system – centrally managed, pesticide-intensive, one-crop production for export – designed to deliver a narrow range of transportable foods to the world market.’Helena Norberg-Hodge

‘Throughout history human exploitation of the earth has produced this progression: colonise-destroy-move on.’ Garrett Hardin

Plastic engineering
quite fantastic
so endearing.

But we make no bones
you can't live lives
in plastic homes
eat plastic bread
drink plastic tea
plastic honey's not
for me.

Let's try and be
the reality
we look to find
but seldom see.

If I take the fall or give
up hope and hang myself
with a plastic rope
how would it look in
years to come
when an archaeologist
(From Lancashire)
says,
'eeh by gum
I've never seen the like before,
plastic face, plastic eyes, plastic ears and plastic jaw'
and you're wondering what all this plastic's for,
but you're not alone, not on your own
there's lot more in their plastic home
thinking the same.

It's all in the name
if they'd called plastic, gold,
we'd all have been sold on
the idea.

Built plastic houses
in plastic lives
With plastic wives
And plastic knives
For safety
Safely snoogled in a lie
Cannot cry when its gone
Yet i try
With plastic tears
And plastic faces
Plastic years
And premade places
To visit
From plastic spaces
In my heart
In plastic pains
From plastic drains
Of my plastic dreams
With Elastic seams
Stretching the view
We all knew
To be real
Once
In plastic poetry

@--\-----

She stood in mama's kitchen
at the table by the door.
Blue plastic roses
their vase broken on the floor.
He said he was leavin'
bought a bottle at the store...
Now daddy's gone
won't be commin' back no more.

(chorus)
Blue plastic roses
put together with some glue
Blue plastic roses
my oh my, how time done flew
Blue plastic roses
no longer bright, no longer new
Blue plastic rose
She's still waiting where they grew


She sits at the table
places set with cheap champagne.
He's not coming over
and she's alone again
Blue plastic roses
their petals cracked and stained
Placed on the TV
the memory remains.

(chorus)

The undertaker paid.
The gravedigger gone.
She left this rotten world
She wasn't all that strong.
Can we reverse the clock?
It just ticks on and on
The damage was too great
no way to right the wrong

Blue plastic roses
set down before her stone
Blue plastic roses
haphazard set upon the loam
Blue plastic roses
hear the wind in the pines groan
Blue plastic rose
now she's really all alone

Now shes really all alone.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/21/2015

I’m a Barbie girl
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic! I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an 18-inch waist
because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
a neck so slender I have to choose
between eating and breathing;
there’s not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a 38-inch bust and
3-times the average amount of forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine shoe squeezed to a three,
spending three to nine avoiding meal time
because my weight-loss book says,
“Don’t eat.”

I’m a Barbie girl,
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic, but I’m
not plastic.
Bile tastes all too organic,
its taste chasing after me
if I exceed my daily nutritional limit of
2,000 calories.
I’m skinny enough that people think I’m healthy.
I’m not skinny enough for people to think I’m unhealthy.
Anorexia is as familiar as the back of my hand,
poised like a gun to the back of my throat,
waiting and ready to blow.
I’m a sixteen-year-old suicide case,
product of the war of production,
wearing battle wounds in the form of uniform lines
across the tops of my thighs.
I’ve been rewriting this poem since its conception.
I feel like the rough draft: concision is key.
(Be smaller.)
I’m trying rewriting,
trying to leave out things that aren’t
important enough, like:
four of my ribs
and my esophagus
and my stomach
and my small intestine.
I’m testing the limits of realism.
But here’s the thing:
I’m a real girl
in a real world.
Life’s not always fantastic,
but I am not plastic.

I am not plastic.

I refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range
based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
eating and breathing
like both are vital aspects to living.
I refuse to be plastic,
an actual hip-to-bust ratio
for not a thirty-year-old but a teenager.
I refuse to be plastic,
shoe size nine in size nine shoes,
trying to start enjoying mealtimes
because my “weight-loss book”
has been chucked down the chute.
I’m a living girl
in a terrifying world,
trying to remind myself that “Life in Plastic!”
is not fantastic.

I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic: I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
having to choose
between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine squeezed to a three, spending
three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says
'Don't eat.'
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic, but...
I'm not plastic.
I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that
society is made by you.
You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and
trust me,
it's trendy:
Psychiatry.
A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams,
fading
reality.
I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I
am a flame,
ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me.
All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions
and I care,
I do,
I mean... I'm standing here among you.
But words are just air.
You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but
I am more than my face so
disregard my mild distaste for your
inspirational speech.
Now, this...
This isn't a call for help.
This is a call to arms.
This
is a battle cry because
I
am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday.
So use this air to live the words you say and
rally.
Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in
Shawnee,
Johnson County.
I'm a real girl,
in a real world.
Life's fantastic, and I
refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose.
I refuse to be plastic,
a bust that you don't need to be sizing
when I've got eyes
a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken
puke.
I refuse to be plastic,
a size nine foot in a size nine shoe,
spending three to nine
enjoying my meal times,
because my weight loss book is
chucked down the chute.
I'm a living girl
in a beautiful world.
Life's fantastic,
because I'm not plastic.

Plastic smiles,
Plastic bodies,
Plastic lives,
Plastic words,
Fake
Fake
Fake
Fake,
Maybe its the latest trend,
Plastic smile to avoid  being questioned,
Plastic body in hope to be perfected,
Plastic lives to impress and draw attention,
Plastic words to try to fit into some section,
So here's the drill;
A fake smile hurts even more than a teardrop,
A fake body;doesn't change the inner you,and that's what's major
A fake lifestyle,only leaves you stressed out for no good reason,
Fake words,drain you and your conscience.
Be real,be you..there can never be another you,
You're beautiful/handsome;there can never be a more beautiful/handsome you.

the pill is plastic.  or I am plastic.  or the pill makes me plastic.  or the pill makes me.  see everything as plastic.  

a smooth light breaks through.  the edges of my soul.   softening the darkness.  and I see all the changes.  in the world.  the subtle movements.  too small for others.  to notice.  too subtle for the world.  to see as change.  

but it is there.  happening all the time.  the world is never.  the same.  we are never.  the same.  in it.  everything sheds.  everything transforms.  we are all replicants.  in some form.  everything feeds off.  of something else.  we are all parasites.  in some form.

the pill is plastic.  or I am plastic.  or the pill makes me plastic.  or the pill makes me.  see everything as plastic.  or everything is plastic.  including the pill.

i miss having an old
plastic box at the
foot of my bed

i miss having
motivation
inspiration

i miss
me

(i'm sorry
okay?)

the only thing
that makes sense
at all anymore
is music

all the black and
white patterns
crawling up and
around my legs

and i lost hundreds of pieces
of transparent music
just left myself
some lead sheets
wrinkled from
artificial humidity.

it just feels
wrong
okay?

i feel wrong
okay?

i discovered
the hard way
the truth

that i like people
on an individual
basis and hate
established institutions

(i'm
sorry
okay?
i'm
actually
really
sorry
okay?)­

i also discovered that
many people actually
like me and somehow i
misunderstood their intentions

(which were undeniably
good but you know
what i've always said
about good intentions.)

regret
regret
flashing neon
regret
guilt
guilt
strangling black
guilt

a plastic box viewed
by me is not a
plastic box viewed
by you

and i want my
plastic box back

the plastic box
i remember
the me
i remember

i want my
plastic box back

i was tripping over it
kicking it for probably
about six years

the yellowed
broken handles
dust in the bottom
it's more than just
a box and more like a coffin
of the last forty years and my past

i remember giving it up
sliding it right under our
old mailbox and handing
over the laptop that was

never mine but always
felt like it and then
walking down the
stairs and out into
the blazing parking lot
like i wasn't a new person.

today i put a laundry
basket full of blankets
where it used to sit
and every time i turn
around i think it's
there again

i'm having
flashbacks of
some stupid
plastic box

(like when somebody
dies or leaves your life and for
awhile it keeps hitting you that
they're just not around anymore)

God and mark
(probably sharons
and kate too)
only know where it is

but i know where
it is not
it's not in my kitchen
it's not in my room

**and i want my
*******
plastic box back.

They came to party until the world ends...
Play the record again
DJ Play that track again..
I watch the stars and clouds and ask when is the end?
Do I go and dance with my friends?
Do I go and watch the world end?
And they say..

Earth is caving in, run away from them.
There world is plastic
They think it's fantastic
Go and talk to him..the man that guides the wind.
Go and ask him,
He is here to save them.

Go and ask you know need Savin
Go and ask you know need Savin
Go ask him the world they know is plastic.
It will burn by there own sinful habits
Go and ask him..
Go and ask him.. The world you know is plastic
It's a habit the world you know is!

Plastic!
Plastic!
Plastic..

Hurry ask him

I came to dance a new song and hyme, Tell me how it ends.
my world is plastic
I was a fanatic
Watch the clouds and stars they took me very far.
He said..

Dust the magic off your feet,
And the plastic off your hands
My heart I give you so you can be real person again.

My songs are platnuim now go and sing to them and who ever here you they hears me.

The ocean,
oh it looked so blue,
shades of colour swimming around like clouds around the moon,

The water,
oh it looked so clean,
but it was just the sun's reflection making it clear,

Underneath the waves lay a graveyard,
a promise of death,
a promise of extinction,

Tombs made of plastic,
slathered in oil,
steaming with toxic waste,
and all the people know,

The damage is unfolding faster than we are evolving,

The turtles are ingesting plastic as if it were their only meal,
begging for their fins to just be free,
so they can dive through the sea,

The seals are tangled in nets, lines and lures,
plastic bags and packing bands,
till they're tied to their grave as if life were just a brief phase,

The seabirds skim the ocean waves for fish and squid,
yet plastic is their only catch of the day,
leaving them broken inside and out,
and dead on the beaches we claim are our own,

The whales are submerged beneath the sea,
eating most things that they see,
plastic, plastic everywhere beneath,
not giving them much time before they can no longer breathe,

The dolphins are gliding through the sea,
taking what they can to eat,
plastic as their only meal,
tearing them apart from within,
leaving them starving for weeks,
till the grave is the only thing they see,

Us humans are so weak,
we can’t see how deep the pain seeps,
but when nothing is left for us to eat,
and the rich have nothing left to steal,
we’ll end in the same graves as all the lives we could have healed.

"Would you like your groceries
bagged in paper or plastic?
will you be paying with paper,
Or plastic?"

Rock paper scissors
has been replaced
With something
more rudimentary
But essentially,
Neither have intentionality.

No matter how far you try to move
away from synthetic
you're still drinking out of plastic
eating out of plastic
driving, walking, buying, *******
out mounds of it.
You put your plastic in plastic,
leave it outside
until a man swings by
throws it into a pit
with all the other wasted ****
to exist
for all eternity.

Would you rather melt or burn?
Bankruptcy is a hard lesson to learn
But the ashes of this economy have been
Touted as prosperity
Instead of resigned to an urn
To relearn the transparency
of democracy
As it should be.

I'll trade my plastic smile
For a fistful of paper
I'll exchange it for something physical,
Something bigger
Something somehow better,
Sans the improvement.
The reanimation of the market
Capitalism! Ah,
The dream land.
“Build your monopoly
Crush your enemy”

Oops I mean your neighbor
They're all the same
in this day and age.
Community has been sold
for pennies on the dollar.
Now we’re fighting tooth and nail
To be the one
wearing the shock collar

Bzzzt!
I have the most likes on my photo
Bzzzzt
This minor annoyance
has become my addiction.
I’m shopping and sharing
And living within this tiny television.

This is post apocalyptic
You just can't see it
Because you're living in it.
Things are better, yes
But 6.7% of Americans are diagnosably,
incurably depressed.
37% are oppressed
44%  are over stressed and
81% are in debt.

Let me just say this now
From my white-privilege-podium
That keeps all adverse effects
Of free speech
From touching me

****
YOUR
AMERICA.

**** this corporate greed
that grinds itself down
and repackages itself into
“The American Dream”.

and **** us, right?
For thinking anything here was free.

Plastic bags are my super villain
and no I am not Aqua Man
I am Michael a normal male civilian
of some young-adult age,
whom is still willing to inconvenience himself.

Not so old, where holding multiple objects
sounds like an obstacle too acrobatic for the limbs to handle.
One can too many knock's off the balance of the elderly
and cast them off the trapeze of a sidewalk
into a net of asphalt, where being caught is a broken hip.

No that is not me, although it does remind me
of my grandma, because to her plastic bags are her life-savers.
It is a struggle to convince my grandma that I am a great trapezist
so we can leave these bags to their solitude
and finally defeat this enemy.

Although with plastic bags it is never so easy
they have plenty of goons who are willing to do the ***** work
forcing themselves upon us at any opportunity,
even those that don't make any sense, even for my grandma.

I Went to Best Buy and bought a brand new movie,"Unfriended"
and I got it for my grandma to watch, since she's a bit technophobic.
This movie will haunt her; for ghosts **** people through the internet.
What will haunt me is Destiny, the worker, handing me a plastic bag:
with a 13-ounce, smaller than a piece of paper Blu-Ray inside
...without even asking if I wanted a plastic bag.

Why can’t you completely accept yourself as you are? What is stopping you from loving yourself? I feel as though it’s hard for someone to completely accept their self as they are because they’re use to being told how they should look, being on social media, and looking at images of certain people. What is stopping someone from loving their self is when they point out the things they don’t like about themselves, and can’t seem to take their mind completely off of it. Though, at the end of the day I feel that you shouldn’t be beautiful for anybody else but yourself.
“Why can’t you completely accept yourself as you are?” There were people of all ages that would find it better to wear makeup and get plastic surgery, but there is a disagreement that it shouldn’t be needed to make someone feel better about themselves because even if they decide to make those changes, their problems won’t because they’ll always be there. There was plenty of deep research on reasons why plastic surgery was good, why it was bad, reasons why makeup was good, and why it was bad. Though, we are leaning more towards why it is bad because we are focused on why can’t others completely accept themselves as they are without relying on plastic surgery and makeup.
I came across this website that spoke about reasons why women would get plastic surgery. “Some want to look younger”(WebMD) it’s very true that most girls and women want to look younger because when we all start to get old. We feel as though there is no hope in finding someone for ourselves, when in fact there is someone out there for us. It has to be the person that is the most accepting of you. Another statement was “Cosmetic surgery won’t change your life. It won’t solve personal problems or make you look like someone else,”(WebMD). It’s very true that it won’t solve your problems because others will still view you the same way because it doesn’t matter how you look. It’s the personality that sticks out the most. Though, it is very silly to believe that personality actually matters, it’s true because sometimes looks don’t last or change as much as a person’s personality.
There was a website that spoke about the issues and finances of plastic surgery and in the article it states that, ”Many people struggle with confidence issues because of their  appearance,”(Occupy theory). Many people can’t completely accept themselves as they are so they start to lack confidence, compare themselves to others, put themselves down, and they don’t believe that they are actually as beautiful as people tell them they are. Another statement that was made was, “Plastic surgery is one of the highest costs for surgery there is,”(Occupy theory). There shouldn’t be any reason why women should waste their money on getting plastic surgery because it just isn’t worth it especially if it’ll all be for the wrong reasons.
There were reasons why women would wear makeup, and what stuck out the most is when it stated, “It’s a way to be expressive,”(Mathews 4). It’s very true that most girls and women want to be more expressive with the type of makeup that they wear because it shows a different but creative side to them. Another statement that stuck out the most is when it stated, “Do not wear it because you think you’re at an age where it’s necessary to start wearing it. Wear it because you want to,” (Mathews 4). Everything that a person does in their life is because they want to do it when it is right for them, not when someone tell them when to start wearing it.
There were pros and cons of make up and in the article it stated, “wearing makeup everyday can cause serious skin problems,”(Warjri 4). No girl should really feel the need to wear makeup everyday because they need to let their skin breathe because there isn’t a problem with just being natural. It’s better to start embracing your skin and being completely natural instead of being afraid. Another statement that was being made was, “A layer of makeup on the skin clogs the pores and prevents skin from breathing,”(Warjri 4). Wondering why you still get pimples? Well, wearing makeup everyday is what is causing that to happen. So, trying to wear makeup trying to cover up the pimples isn’t going to solve much.
A book called, “The Gifts of Imperfection”, connects in some way to my why question which is why it stuck out a lot. As I was reading the book, the part that stuck out is when it stated, “The better we are at accepting ourselves and others, the more compassionate we become. Well, it’s difficult to accept people when they are hurting us or taking advantage of us or walking all over us,”(Brown pg 17). It’s important to accept ourselves and others as they are because in reality nobody is perfect. That’s why no girl or women should be obligated to wear makeup just so they can be seen as “beautiful” by other people. Another statement that stuck out the most to me was, “What does it take to live and love from a place of worthiness? How do we embrace imperfection? How do we cultivate what we need and let go of the things that are holding us back? The answers to all of these questions are courage, compassion, and connection—the tools we need to work our way through our journey,”(Brown pg 1). This stuck out the most to me because compassion and connection are very important and that’s what should matter the most. Not how you look.
The solution is that everyone should test themselves and try their best to last at least a few weeks without using products to make themselves feel “beautiful” or to make themselves feel better, and they’ll start to realize that it’s better getting up in the morning not having to worry about putting certain things on to make them feel better about themselves.

Plastic face
Plastic skin
Plastic smile
Plastic eyes
Plastic clothes
Plastic words
Plastic souls

When will we be real?

The retainer where she was put
Was made of concrete. My father told me they had
Dug the grave first, then poured the concrete in, waited for
It to dry and harden, then hammered in six
Circular spikes in the four corners, two on either side
Of the middle. They lifted the concrete cast out with a crane.
My dad was going to be charged 300 dollars a day for the rental,
But because of the circumstances, Home Depot let us have it for free.

-

Where was she?
Where had she gone?
Would I see her face again?
Would she want me to
Meet her on the other side of the river?

-

I answered my cell phone.

"Make sure to bring flower's."
She had been crying. Her voice wavered the way sun light
Does on moving water.

"Make sure to bring flowers," she repeated, "And
That you wear what your father and I bought you."

I nodded my head with the receiver pressed up against my ear.
We both let out a sigh. My mom hung up. I put my phone in my back pocket.

-

Lately, I had been seeing a shrink about repetition. He liked to use the word cycle.

"Everything is repeated," I would tell him.

"Life is a cycle," he'd disagree so to get me talking.

"Can cycles be identical?"

"Technically not. Some cycles are extremely similar, but no two cycles are
Completely the same. Are two people's lives ever exactly the same?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't know that many people. Maybe."

"You know lots of people, Camden. You have told me about many of your friends."

"Are we talking about the seasons?" I asked, changing the subject, "Like fall, winter, spring, summer? We are born, we live, we die, and we are born again?"

"That's a very natural way of looking at it."

"I know it is." I inhaled deeply, swallowing air and wondered what time it was.

"If you are so sure, why look for validation from me?" He liked this one, I could
tell. I imagined him shopping for clothes and then exploding in aisle 16 because of a sale on jeans.

"The word cycle is used by people too afraid to use the word repetition. Everything is
Repeated for the next generation, the next group, the next of the next of the next. We shift things
Around, give things to one another to shift life to make it look different, but, things remain the same. Everything contains the primal function we were all doing and living from the very beginning, only now, there is more of a separation. Music is still music, words are still words, paintings are still paintings, love is still love, death is still death, only done differently and more intensely."

"We are talking about man furthering technology because we, as people and creatures, are
Statistically more prone to flee than fight?"

"Why do you think it has caught on so quick?" I touched both
Corners of my lips with my tongue and suddenly realized I hadn't eaten breakfast.

"It is a theory," the psych nodded, "A theory with, I am sure, many
Palpable facts you could make a very nice report with to prove...something." He
Was at a lost for words and I felt guilty that my mom was paying him $75 an hour.

"We are very split. There are too many of us. Too many hands spinning the china."

"Who is we Harry?" The psych hadn't looked up from his pen and pad of paper, until now. I could
Tell he was annoyed with me either because he was making no progress or because the session
Had just begun and I was already digging into him.

"Culture. The government. You, me, my dad, my mom, the taco bell cashier, the geniuses at Apple computers, a paper weight, my dead sister. We're all apart of these shifts, all putting in a certain amount of energy and lies to keep the protection of the projection going. The question I keep asking myself is: do I want to use my strengths to be apart of this cycle or not?"

His eyes flared open for a moment like he'd swallowed a firefly, not at the question I had posed for myself, but from what I would soon see was from the mention of my sister. He had something.

"I was notified by your mother that you may not want to talk about your recently deceased sister. Is It O.K. if I ask you some questions about her?"

I was leaning forward on the couch with my hands clasped in between my legs. The psych had looked up at me now. He was sweating at the top of his thin hairline. Observing that I was staring at his building perspiration, he, trying to be nonchalant, took out a thin, white napkin from his grey shirt pocket and dabbed the top of his head. The napkin looked like cheap toilet paper. I'd have offered him some water, but I had no water to give and I didn't know where the sink and cups were to give him any. I figured he did - it was his office - so I asked him for some. He pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. I got up and found a stack of paper cups. I poured myself a cup and went back to the couch, but instead of leaning forward, I sat back, relaxed, and let the expensive leather couch take the weight I had been carrying away.

"So," the psych maintained cooly, "Would it be alright if we were able to discuss your sister?"

I lifted the paper cup over my head and the psych's eyes, after I poured the water over my hair, my face, and clothes, was a mixture of what my mom's eyes looked at the funeral, defeated, confused, and with a loss of faith and hope. My father's eyes had only held hate, anger and the need to lash out at someone, but the only someone that would have fit the bill would have been God.

"Sure," I answered, "Let's talk about my sister."

-

I finished drying myself in the car. The psych had let me keep the towel.
I leaned out the window to look at myself in the side mirror. I looked fine.
Presentable. Accountable. Like I had been through something where I had
Faced my soul. Like I had used and abused my emotions. There was comb in my glove compartment, so I took it out and rushed it through my damp hair. Slicked back. The sun
Was out, no clouds, burning up the inside of my car. That taste that comes after
Finishing something that's supposed to do you good didn't come. I was left with an unsure hand.
Putting my keys in the ignition, I turned them, and felt the engine rumble in front of my legs.
The sun sat in the sky like a lazy hand and I had nowhere else to go but home.

-

"Let's go to the river today," my dad said over coffee and two over easy eggs on top
Of burnt wheat toast. "I'll drive and you and your sister can sit in the back and sing."

I looked over at Ally. She was gazing into her fruit bowl she had prepared for
herself because dad didn't understand the concept or how to make it. The lamp light above us
reflected in the smooth apricot yogurt and the flecks of granola scattered on top
looked like beige, jagged rocks. My dad's offer hung in the air and neither
of us bit the lure. I had just woken up and was unable to speak clearly, a decent
excuse. Ally was simply choosing to ignore him.

"What you think there Ally?" I asked her. I sipped my coffee. It needed more cream. I got
U, got it and brought the carton to the table.

"We can take the truck down there and load the back with the fishing poles and tackle
And inner tubes. We haven't...done that...in a long time," he said, chewing his food as he spoke.

Ally poked her fruit bowl with her spoon, silent.

"What you think, Cam?" My dad was desperate. He knew I'd say yes.

"Sure. I've got no plans this weekend."

"No schoolwork?"

"It can wait till Sunday. Only math and some reading."

"Ally, what do you think?" my dad asked, leaning over to her. I could see he was
Trying to be as courteous and gentle with her as he knew how to. I felt bad for him.

"Sure," she muttered, "That sounds like fun." I could barely hear her, but somehow,
I could tell she sounded happy.

"Perfect," my dad smiled, "We'll pack the car up Friday,
Drive up Saturday morning early, camp one night, then get back Sunday afternoon." He
Took a long sip of his coffee and swished it around in his mouth, then dug
His fork into the dry toast and ran his small steak knife over the eggs. A silent pop came from
The egg and the light orange yolk spilled out. "Perfect," he repeated, "Just great."

Ally poked a grape from her fruit bowl and dipped it into the yogurt.
I took another sip of my coffee and looked up into the fan, spinning above us.
We were going to the river.

-

"Your sister turns five today," my mom told me, "And that means
I want you to be on your best behavior."

I nodded, unsure what the point of a birthday was. I had had one before, or at
least I thought I did, and all I remembered was that I got presents and the colorful balloons
and the cake we all ate with fire kind of floating and burning above it. Somewhere
in that moment I remember thinking that the cake was going to catch on fire, then they, everyone,
some that I knew and some people I had never seen before, yelled and shouted to
blow the fire out, so I quickly did, but not because it was for a wish, which I later found out it was supposed to be for, but because I truly thought the cake was going to catch fire and they wanted me to take care of it. At that point, I was unsure what it meant to be alive or why to celebrate it all.

"This is her day, Camden," my father told me, "So I want you to be happy for your sister."

"I am," I said. I was wearing my favorite white and blue striped t-shirt and
New shoes that my mom had bought me for the party.

"Sometimes you have to think of other people," my mother continued, "And today is one
of those days. I don't want any crying because you didn't get any presents or that none of your
friends are at the party. There are going to be a lot of Ally's friends there, but not many
of your's...do you understand?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Do you understand, Cam?" My father repeated. His skin was the color of a burnt
pancake and he smelt like stale sugar and sun tan lotion. He was in front of me and was
holding a thin magazine with a man in a boat holding up a fish on a line on the cover.  

"Yes, Dad," I said again. I was hungry. I wanted mac n' cheese, my favorite food.

I had been on the floor, laying on my stomach watching Ren and Stimpy. They were standing in front of the television and I remember trying to wish them out of the way. Behind them were two, large bay windows where three palm trees stood in a row like tropical soldiers. I could see there was no wind because the three of them stood still, as if posing for someone. Their leaves were bright green, a mixture of the neon green Jello I used to love to eat and the orange Jolly Rancher my dad would always have in a tiny tray in the middle of the dining table. My mother hated having them there because it always tempted Ally and I, but he never moved it until he moved out.

"Do you like your show?" my mom asked, turning to see what I was watching.

I nodded, absently. Ren was licking Stimpy's eye because he was complaining about having
an eyelash in there. Stimpy was completely still and smiling like he does - dumb and content.

"Interesting..." my mother trailed off. She walked to the kitchen behind the couch and
Opened up the pantry for something. "You hungry, Camden?"

"I'm starving," my dad said, "Let me go check on Ally in the bedroom. She should be up
from her nap."

I got up from my stomach and sat back on my legs, "Do we have mac n' cheese?" I asked.

"Let me check."

She reached up for the cabinet over the stove where I could never reach and
Opened it. I rose slightly up from where I was sitting to see if I could see the glorious dark blue and orange package, but wasn't able to see over couch. I hovered there, still like a humming bird.

"You're in luck," I heard her say, "We've got one box left."

"Yay!" I screamed and got up, running into the kitchen.

"But," she smiled, stopping me, "You'll have to share it with your sister."

"No! I don't want to! I always have to share."

"What did we just talk about Camden?" she said, lightly stamping her foot.

I tried to remember, but couldn't. I shrugged.

"You need to learn to share, Camden. You also need to listen better when your father and I are talking to you. You and your sister are going to know each other a very long time and I want you to learn how to share now, so you two can be happy in the future."

"The future," I asked, "What's that?"

She paused, then said, "It's a time," she paused again, "Ahead of us."

"Do we know where it is?"

"Not exactly," she sighed.

"What's it look like?"

"No one really knows. People can only imagine it."

"Is it very far away?"

She opened the top of the blue and orange mac n' cheese box and poured the dry macaroni into a large silver ***, lifted the faucet, and let it run inside for five or seven seconds. She placed the *** on an unlit burner and turned to look at me. Her eyes looked far away and right there with me.  

"Closer then you think," she said and turned the burner on.

-

I turned into the taco bell parking lot. There was something I was trying to remember that was in my trunk, but I couldn't recall the picture. A haze blew over the windshield that was a mix of heat and wind; I wished to be somewhere else, someone else, someplace else, but, there I was, sitting there underneath the sun, like everyone else. If I was able, I would have unlocked the door to my car and opened the door and walked out - but - there was something else lingering underneath my fingernails, something I couldn't name.

"Two tacos," I said into my hand, "And a water."

"Pull to the window," the voice buzzed over the muffled speaker.

"Yes," I said through my split fingers.

In front of me, over a patch of clean cut green grass and a yellow, red, and orange Taco Bell signature sign, was a fresh gas station with a willow tree *** near the front entrance. He had a sign that hung around his neck that read Juice Please - Very Thirsty. How I knew this was because I had seen it every time I had been asked to fill up my dad's car every other Sunday. I had never given the tree a dollar, yet, I felt that I owed him something. I tried to pull up to the window, but my clutch was grinding and a cloud slunk overhead. I was tired and only wanted to eat.

"That'll be a two twenty-five," the voice said through the thick, clear glass.

"Yes," I said to myself, digging into my wallet for three dollars.

I ****** the three onto the thick plastic platform. A quick sweeping plastic brush pushed the bills toward the asker, and the bills were gone. I had no food. I had nothing. My money was gone and all I had was a gurgling car in front of me and an empty front seat beside me. A pair of clouds waded by my front shield window. A shadow drew itself out in front of me like a **** model. A beep. Sudden and behind me. There was sound. I looked over my shoulder and a black  2013 Cadillac was sitting there, windshield tinted grey, the driver a shadow. I was unsure what to do...so I pulled forward six inches, hoping the offer would be enough. I wasn't in the best neighborhood.

The window to the left of me slid open. An arm erupted forward with a plastic bag,
"75 cents is your change."

The hand dropped three quarters next to the plastic bag. I grabbed the bag with the two tacos and three quarters and quickly wound up my window. The face in front of me was a dangerous blur: smiling, frowning, not caring either way what happened to me next. The hands had gobbled up the three dollars and I was happy to see it go. Who needed money? I tossed the plastic bag onto the passenger seat and sped off two blocks for my grandma's house. Salvation. The holy land. A place with free hot sauce and two dog's that were stolen without paper's. Eden.

-

"What are you learning right now?" I asked Ally.

She hesitated, then said, "Something to do with science." She paused," Lot's to do with rock's."

"Rocks?" I stammered, not remembering a time when I learned about rocks in school, "What kind of rocks?"

"I don't know," she grinned, looking up at me, "All kinds."

I laughed and kicked a stone into the river. The sun was out and reflected on the water like an unpolished diamond. We had grown up a quarter mile away, but still, it felt foreign to us.

"I like it. There's some things you could see that you would never think to read about it in books."

I had read plenty off books. Most, I took little from, but Ally, I could see, had taken plenty.

"What are you doing in school?" Ally asked me.

"What do you mean?" I

Plastic People, with their rubber dreams and artificial passions.
They're raised by their plastic parents who give them wax smiles, hollow promises for a future.
Plastic people and their perfectly polished personalities have superficial beliefs, in which they are the center.
Their corrupt ideals on intelligence place people in categories of A through F, score others out of 100.
Plastic people know nothing beyond the realm of themselves. Their selfless actions preceded by selfish thoughts.
Skills wasted singing self-centered songs, writing conceited poetry.
A plastic person does not know that they are plastic, but will accuse others of being so.
Now, what does that make me?

Even wan hills
looked better in
threadbare light
You were the whisper
of a neon lights
noses to the sky
in a pitch plastic night
I walked by their obstinate
legs, haunted by a plastic bag
gliding on negligent bursts.
upon arrival
roughly hung doors
of understanding
lit by cheap sulfur bulbs.
The handles too large for
small palms to turn
my feet knew better ways home
they ambled on beside my plastic ghost.

Paper dreams on plastic lies
Corrupting us with their paper dreams
That tell us we can't be happy without that paper
That tell us we can't be happy unless we buy that plastic
And sell our souls to their paper dreams
And plastic lies
Those people tell us
That the only way to live
And play in their little game
Is to buy into this fantasy
That tell us that we can't be happy
Until we have bought every single toy
Until we have bought ourselves dry
Trying to fulfill this paper dream
And those who see the truth
For what it really is
And decide not to play the game altogether
Are ostracized and seen as a nuisance
Or crazy
And seen as people to be gotten rid of
Disposed of
Because they refuse to buy into the paper dreams
And the plastic lies
We need to open our eyes
There is more than enough in the world
For everyone to have plenty
And for our Earth to heal
And for us to pay more attention
To our planet
And to the people standing right in front of us
We are so filled with greed
Chasing these plastic lies
That make us hide ourselves
That make us fake
Following the rules
And separating ourselves from each other
That a lot of us don't even realize they are doing it
They have become so used to immediately seeing themselves
As somehow better
Somehow more important
Than other people
Because they buy into the plastic lies
And the paper dreams
But we are all equal
We all have something to give
And we all have something to gain
By giving up these dreams and lies
And getting back to the natural way
Before we started buying into this reality

Perfect: I used that word once to talk about you
as if you were a doll with limbs made of plastic:
stiff and whimsical and subject to the niggardly
commands of the conscious- yet you, who thinks
as aggressively as any doll-house builder do not
construct your own set-pieces; instead you
pirouette into one carefully constructed day to the
next as you delicately
stride
from bed to shower to wardrobe to mirror to desktop to
window to mirror to mirror to
mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them
all-
and the staid look on your face when the mirror gives no
answer
because it can’t. Checkered skirt, sharp eyelashes, wary
jumper, almost heels. Perfect, you might think
for a moment before your eyes roll gently from self
to mirror
to self
to mirror
to mirror
the self. What was
it that you were looking for if all it does is lead
you back to your skin? Meanwhile, the snow
stutters softly from above as if God had dandruff-
perfect- and it all gently glazes the spongy surface of the world like
flawless coconut icing on some sorry party cake- perfect- and the morning
bell rings impossibly on time like the last
breath you thought was your last- perfect- and somewhere in
America I use words to remind you of the little
unreachables
of perfection that both start and end with your perfectly
snow-pale skin, where somewhere in
America and somewhere on
your thighs perfect ridges of red have formed themselves like
plastic scratches on a Barbie which we both think
are little but we both know
are big
because you are not plastic.

                                               At nighttime our feet
skip on the icy brick pathways that lead from
the dorm-rooms to the library and we shiver
as the snowflakes bob in and out of our bodies
like thoughts
that seem funny but aren’t quite- they melt away
as soon as they stumble upon our skin. From our mouths
cloudy puffs of being flutter out- little butterflies affirming
out listless snowflake-filled minds, sperming out ice-clouds
from our mouths, our mouths, our mouths; birthing friendship.
Breath, visible, is laughter. I trip and swear and momentarily
skate
across a sudden ice-surface as you speak another ice-breath. We
arrive
at the library but dart towards the empty right-side, the science
classrooms. We hope
to examine the thought-skirmishes on your right thigh, to turn  
and change this hopeless world-spinning into centrifuge
separation-
make apparent the light from the dark
                        the firmament from the void
                        the flesh from the plastic, the-
here we are as you talk
about your family and I
try my best to look you
in the eye so I
can become
your eyes
even when
normally
I
am
so
vehemently
against

staring

at the soul-gates of another being-
here we are as you talk;
God is still missing from the centrifuge
of the endlessly turning world- your
axis
is your skin yet
you trust it
not. The salads without dressing,
        the weighing scales,
        the taste of bile at the back of your
throat-
all for skin that
       you
do
not
      trust.
All for flesh that you think is plastic
so
     you
     cut.
      
             Enough
talk because the bell cuts through the flesh
of our conversation. Enough
talk because the world insists on
turning still
and forcing us to revolve
with it. Enough
breathing, enough
snow, enough
life. I remember you saying
that the ratios of your face are wrong;
that certain equilibriums do not exist between
your cheeks your lips your eyes your life…I remember the science
classrooms where parts of you were as mathematical as the architecture... I remember how
you keep thinking your flesh is plastic… You forget how
inglorious the nature of these words is. The problem
with human thought, with the ratios of your face, with the
geometric structures that cut across your thighs, with the
statistical neatness with which your family decomposes;
the problem with our conception of perfect is how
awkwardly it both exists and does not exist for us to
see.
The ratios of your face which you think are broken are
the same miracles I wonder about as you laugh. The incorrect distance
from your cheek to your eye which you think is wrong is the same
lightyear which separates the stars from the planets. The curvature
of your stomach is the bending of a spacetime to accommodate
the way the air must move to let your body occupy the space and time in which it
exists.
The ratios you speak of spring from your own limitlessness, your own
perfect imperfections , imperfect perfections-
strange oddities and unfathomable beauties and yes. Yes,
even the ridges across your right thigh are minute, red,
gasping
grand-canyons of
flesh,
of human, of breathing clay
flesh-
           never
plastic;
            always
worthy.
            
              Recently the voices in my head have been getting louder,
telling me all sorts of things about how the snow ought to bury me
in its mercilessness. They mention also that my words bear no meaning,
my thoughts even less so. Assumedly, the ridges across your thigh
carry such spectres as well but, I messaged you before you went to bed
about coming out and having an adventure because tick-tock-tick-tock…tick…tock…tick-
the last bell of the day is going to ring soon and the voices and ridges
will assert themselves again with the bedtime silence, but check your Facebook
messages and come outside and let’s go skipping with your friends across
the century-old polished prep-school brick pathways that smell archaic because it’s

snowing outside and it’s lovely.

Thrown in the garbage
Without a second thought
Years down the road
Found washed ashore on a small island
Among thousands, millions of other pieces of garbage

Poisoning and killing the native birds
Who have lived there their whole lives
Relying on the fish in the water
The bugs on the land

But without great sight
They can’t tell a lid from a squid
A wrapper from a fish

The trash ends up in their stomach
It doesn't go away
They can’t and won’t be able to get it out of their systems
Staying until the bird dies

Millions of dead birds
All around the island
Never moved, never touched
Dying and decaying
Their bodies turning to dirt

But not the plastic that was in them
It takes hundreds, sometimes thousands of years
For those pieces to finally break down

The few things that do decompose
As they’re floating in the ocean
Are still out there
Turning into microscopic spheres of plastic
Collecting toxins and infecting fish

Other plastic spheres making their way to land
Mixing in with the sand
Eventually instead of rocks
The sand will be made of plastic
And that will be considered normal
Standard

A prediction for 2030
Based off scientist’s studies
There will be more plastic in the ocean
Than there will be fish

The fish that  we eat
And what’s going to happen to us?
Is the plastic going to **** us too?

All of these things
Just adding up
Like a big cycle
We throw it away
We **** the animals
Pollute the waters
And in turn
Our garbage will **** us

Plastic Hearts

A single crack is how it starts, ripping through our plastic hearts.
And as we scream and plead and beg, Our friends don’t know quite how much it hurts.
We learn to stop, learn to numb. Even if it is quite dumb.  
Never allowing one to get to close. For fear of an overdose.
Because when all you’ve learned to love can leave, You don’t know what to believe.
All I’ve ever known was pain, until I found the one who kept me sane. Ripping through our plastic hearts.
One day we were ripped apart, I and my dead heart.
But every cry and plead and beg, only casts us more into the dark. Ripping through our dead plastic hearts.


Every cut and every plead
Is always met with a need
Everyday and every way
I can feel my heart dying.
Fighting to stay, fighting to slay
All we’ve ever known is pain

Cry, puppet, cry!
The audience is waiting, the Puppeteer prepares.
Tiny posters frame the site. Their tiny print declares:

“Welcome To The World—The Comedy Begins”
(Yanked around from **** to tomb, derided from the wings,
a doll will try to navigate while tangled in his strings).

The stage is dank and dingy, the props and players cold.
Cobwebs cake dismembered dolls from sold-out shows of old.
The curtains part…the puppets bob…at last the show’s begun!
The stars come out to ogle. The seasons start their run.

Rise, puppet, rise!
Dangle in your diapers, in shorts and then in pants.
Pirouette for pedagogues who pan your puppet prance.
Welcome to the world, dear boy, the travesty begins.
Twirl for flirts and bullies, hopscotch through the haze,
trapped in something deeper than the basic script conveys.
Papa Puppet, Mama Doll, amazed at how you’ve grown,
pray someday you’ll make a little puppet of your own.
They sacrifice. They sympathize. They stumble to and fro.
The stars come out to ogle. The seasons come and go.

Dance, puppet, dance!
For deity, for family, for country and for home.
Park your pretty plastic horse outside your plastic dome.
Welcome to the world, good sir, the tragedy begins.
Good patriarch, good neighbor, good volunteer, good friend.
Fight to save that plastic grin and plastic cash you spend,
Greet each day with grim resolve, kiss Baby Puppet ’bye.
Fall in line in lockstep in your plastic suit and tie.
Fight to face the fake parade, collapse when day is done.
The stars come out to ogle. The seasons merge to one.

Die, puppet, die!
Cry for your conscience, left at the crime,
writhing in rhythm, twitching in time.
Welcome to the world, old soul, the final act begins.
Howl into the deaf abyss, as if the night would care.
Fight to keep your plastic faith, to hold your glassy stare.
Fight to force your hinges wide, to curb your quaking springs,
to clench your dummy fingers through a hail of severed strings.
A shadow grows.
The Puppeteer’s impatient eyes appear.
The curtains close.
Children’s laughter filters through the faint applause you hear.
The paint begins to flake and peel, the plastic eyes roll back.
The stars come out to ogle.
The seasons fade to black.


Thanks for reading The Seasons. NOW PLEASE CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO READ MY MAGNUM OPUS HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS, ABOUT THE FIRST MAN TO CIRCUMNAVIGATE THE PLANET. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com