"spotlights" poems
they're spotless, no room for human flaws here.
with faultless sense of selves and fragile attributes
are silver stars, whose homes are cold glittered spotlights
pressured, battered and bruised. look away dear, they're "fine"
they're fine, scared and composed until the next plot twist
rarely, ever so rarely - a perfect one slips
a miscalculation on a regular day
phenomena, wasn't supposed to be that way
perfectionism drove them faultlessly insane
when the known consistent road, shatters to eggshells
"ever so rarely", they reason to the mirrors
with guilt mixing in the blood of walking in fear
inner madness unleashing, black swans reappearing
the wrongs, how cruel that it doesn't let them go on
"this is only once in a blue moon", they echo
deep breathes, clutching close, the past's panic they can't let go
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 11:46 AM UTC
~
June 2023
HP Poet: Patty Mager
Country: USA
Question 1: Welcome to the HP Spotlight, Patty. Please tell us about your background?
Patty M: "I was born an only child in a 3 generation household. I loved books, and playing imaginary games, and chasing my mom with really long nightcrawlers, my Grandpa raised in a washtub. I was a banker, and a financial banker for many years. I quit to do hospice for my Dad when he was to go into hospice. My husband had heart problems and my little Mom eventually got Cancer. So I nursed and loved them all. My Dad for a year, the others over an 8-year period. I saw the transition of each and the way each handled their ending, and I was there for them all. I consider that a special blessing."
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Patty M: "I always wrote, but I found a poetry site 20 years ago, and began to write seriously. I've been published in many anthologies both in the US and abroad. I was nominated for the coveted Pushcart Prize twice and I once had a three-page spread in our local newspaper. I came to HP in 2014 and I love this special place with amazingly wonderful poets who have become really great friends."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Patty M: "Sometimes poems seem to write themselves, almost like automatic writing."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Patty M: "Poetry is spiritual, and a lifesaving rope that carries me through both good and the horrible times of my life."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Patty M: "My favorite Poets are: Sylvia Plath, Neruda, Billy Collins, Maya Angelou, Poe, Ginsberg, Anne Sexton, and Longfellow."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Patty M: "I love to cook, do crossword puzzles, read, and play card games like canasta, and spider solitaire. Being with family is my heaven."
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for allowing me to interview you, dear Patty! I learned a great deal about you!”
Patty M: "Thank again Carlo. Thanks so much for all your help and kindness."
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Patty a little bit better. I indeed did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)
We will post Spotlight #5 in July!
~
Jun 1, 2023
Jun 1, 2023 at 5:56 PM UTC
And in the whitest dark I
Ask for only that
To keep
Me there, for just the span of
Your snowglobe smile
That aftershock nightlight in the
Afternoon heat
Wait for me there
With your bayonet heart
Hands
Shoulders
Beneath the powerline
Wire, asleep but for me
Awake but for
The rest
And doze after
Half-light dreams and
Headrush spotlights that
Blur and
Mar my
Little love frame
Bright night air, fill
Every niche
Till whole is all
And all is this
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
Friday- the most promising day of all.
The beginning of the weekend, but the one day that will spark appall.
Down on Mainstreet all the girls
In their fringed dresses, pouting their foxy lips and their hair waving in short messes.
The hags frown as the winged ladies pass by- displaying their carriages a little sly.
Oh, but Jane's favourite speakeasy was 'The Back Room' down on Norfolk Street: the place where the lost creatures meet.
Tin ceilings, velvet wallpaper, plush thrones and back in that dark corner, there is the sound of low moans.
'A whiskey, neat, please' as a shadow in a tuxedo walked towards her and he whispered 'Hi,' in a sensual purr.
'Who are you?' he stirred,
'Oh, I'm Miss Doe' and he lept into the stool with a swift flow.
And the jazz trumpets married the spontaneous harmonies and the saxophone created sublime melodies.
So they sat as idle as ghouls in the dim spotlights, until Jane asked Mr Buck:
'D'you fight in the war?' And he whined 'Cambrai, Amiens and Lys' - his lips seemed a little sore.
'I'm sorry - do I know you?' His face looked as familiar as Jay to Nick. A brief pause in time at that smile.
That was the final chord to the "lick".
He drove her down to Roslyn- to his replica of Versailles and Jane looked intensely shy.
'Oh, do come in,' the desperado soughed. And she walked into the gilded palace which Cupid's presence bowed.
'I have a favour to ask of you, Miss Doe. Would you be as kind to wash away my woe?'
And as they congressed under diamond chandeliers, his comrades gathered around the bed in amorphous silhouettes; watching disgustedly.
As for Mr Buck he was an alien, skin-to-skin with a haunted beauty and Miss Doe- a labourer on duty.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
With my face over her hair fallen neck
sending through my lips
what I’ve dreamed of compiled tastes
One arm wrapped her waist
The spinal curve of her back
Give-way my others embrace
In my palm falling slowly
with surrendered hold
Her reclining body takes plunge
A body wondrously dreamt by the Gods
but never to beholden
For that vessel has since long belonged
And in a quiet covet,
the Gods continue to sin
Over and across the bed
Released from my grip
Upwards into her hairline
a sweat spreading mist
Grabbing a fistful of mane
I’d lay down on the runway to attain
this flowing coat between my fingers
For the length of time
her hair has entwined me in cuffs
Pulling harder
I gladly yield in acceptance
this braid given stain
a permanent scar
Slow let go of her feathers tangled
In her neck I’m keeping
a burrow in repose
Seeing buttons undone in sync
to expose
The destination of my lips next imprint
like advanced shadowing hints
In a mechanical motion
Hair pulling emotion
Triggers upward
her chest and chin
Two spotlights on the ceiling what her ******* up send
Shaping her back an arc
like a half moons descent
When she finishes her unbuttoning
Next for my belt she reaches
then the unzip I’ll never forget
She takes me in invest
I take her in continuous shooting
All the unfastened
unclothed
Now Firm
Quake
Earned
And Shake
The peak is reached from this encounter
defined by a collection of far to many lustfully seductive
mental hive of trapped aches
Then I kiss her lips in return she kisses me back, felt...
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 7:08 PM UTC
~
September 2024
HP Poet: Victoria
Age: 59
Country: UK
Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, Victoria. Please tell us about your background?
Victoria: *"My name is Victoria, I'm 59 and from Wirral, North West England. I studied and had a career in social work, predominantly the field of Child Protection. I was married, I'm happily single. I am the eldest of 6 and have 5 children and 5 grandchildren. Home growing up was dysfunctional, I lived through my teens with my nan. I'm passionate about my family, Liverpool fc and my friends. I was addicted ****** My bio says: "Previously life was complex, I helped make it that way, now, I keep it simple and fun." It's true."*
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Victoria: "I joined Hello Poetry in 2011 and that's when I started writing poetry. Mostly, I started with rhyme and then found that prose better fit my parlance."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Victoria: "I'm inspired by my many experiences, with others and in nature. I'm inspired by poetry here, always. Many a poem has stayed with me, long after reading. Writing poetry was suggested to me and my writing developed, it gave me a voice to express, that which more often I had held silent."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Victoria: "What poetry means to me happens both in the reading and the writing. Poetry for me, gives and changes perspective, I gain new sensibilities and find through the writing, as in life there is, constant readjustment."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Victoria: "I have lots of favourite poets here, at Hello Poetry. I've made many friends and been fortunate to meet a few. I also enjoy discovering new poets and I am always amazed at the talent out there."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Victoria: "I enjoy fishing: music, photography and feeding my family home grown produce. I've rented an allotment plot for about 12 years, it is where I grow veg, fruit and flowers. My other pastimes are travel, walking, watching the footy and the occasional wild night out with close friends."
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for giving us this opportunity to get to know the man behind the poet, Victoria! We are honored to include you in this ongoing series!”
Victoria: "Thank you, Carlo."
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Victoria a little bit better. I most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez
We will post Spotlight #20 in October!
~
Sep 1, 2024
Sep 1, 2024 at 4:32 PM UTC
I appeared that one random day some years ago when the stars were galloping.
since then each step I take picturesque the clip I've been rolling.
I remember that day when mom told me that to live was to encounter a blessing and struggling was the way we inherit a trophy for generations that lived.
I was deceived by the unrealistic heroism of many martyrs who died before me.
in fact, the spotlights were not meant for me as I expected. fate put me far removed from any truth I’ve worshiped.
some days I move in urge and fly very high. I heal my wounds and forgive people who randomly get me to taunt.
some days I scream without words and get drowned in my own nightmares. I drop death thinking of any chance to collect my own mythical strikes.
after all, I still reopen my eyes to a bizarre sight; I wonder if it is the answer to all the prayers I've murmured in my solemn nights
or perhaps it is just the doom I've been daydreaming about all the time.
of the truths spoken and the marks of my barefoot steps, I pledge for an eternal gaiety. And a place of my own kind.
Aug 14, 2022
Aug 14, 2022 at 9:21 AM UTC
sometimes i’m shocked
by the smallness of my world
at times something happens
that spotlights my ignorance
and i don’t worry
because knowing all
will never be
and knowing that
just reminds me
how what we know
is ever
in philosophical doubt
and what we know, we don’t know
is massive, multiple and manifold
and what we don’t know, that we don’t know
that unfathomable black hole
really can’t matter
leaving me in a state
of delirious mysterious wonder
accepting happily
that there is much to ponder
but there is no hurry
so what me worry
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 7:01 PM UTC
Cyber! Neon green, pinks,
Hair like vivid spotlights
At nightclubs, darting, sharp,
Strong-willed and persistent,
Piercing through the pale skin
Laid thinly over fog.
Shock-shock! If anarchy
Is popular, what does
It mean to rebel? Rave
Lights beam through the system
Like tracer rounds! The punks
Spin like halogen bulbs.
Steel! Plenty of plastic.
Enough to rebuild the
Eccentric walls of their
Flashy nightclubs. Above,
Sophisticated chains
Spin and drag over meat;
Pointless. A simple sort
Of mechanisation.
The music, the plastic,
The hair dye; all of it
Spits to the contrary,
Such anarchists are they.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 5:42 AM UTC
~
October 2023
HP Poet: Maddy
Age: 65
Country: USA
Question 1: We welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Maddy. Please tell us about your background?
Maddy: "Retired Teacher now Media and Digital Literacy Educational Consultant and writer."
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Maddy: "Been writing since I was eight. Three years now as an HP member."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Maddy: "Poetry wakes me in the middle of the night on airplanes and when I walk. It is still one of my best friends other than my husband, sister, and Best BFF Irene."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Maddy: "It is my friend and companion and is a precious asset. Without it my life would be empty."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Maddy: "Thoreau, EE Cummings, Sappho, MAYA Angelou, Carole King, Emily Torres, Mary Oliver, Millay, and many here on HEPO."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Maddy: "I love Travel, Photographer, Nature, Cooking, Theatre, Concerts, and Reading."
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for giving us an opportunity to get to know you, dear Maddy! You are a wonderful addition to the series!”
Maddy: "Thanks and looking forward to it and your review of my book on Amazon."
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Maddy a little bit better. I indeed did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)
We will post Spotlight #9 in November!
~
Oct 1, 2023
Oct 1, 2023 at 3:33 PM UTC
The sky is aflame.
To the west, it burns crimson.
A warm gradient that seems like a massive forest fire,
turning to a bright copper in the middle
and ending as a quiet mahogany.
To the east, a near-blinding white.
With no gradient or change as it rises,
simply dying down eventually,
propped up by unholy spotlights that pierce the atmosphere.
The north is charred a mute maroon,
a short glass of auburn carelessly splashed to the horizon.
To the south, pale bone paints away the stars,
spattered with shades of pewter and smoke.
I cannot see the stars through all the light,
and I do not know which way to follow.
The sky is aflame, lit by so many sources,
rendering it empty and dull, burning away.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 2:00 AM UTC
flesh is nothing but a plastic cover
and if you s t r e t c h it far enough
the seams begin to rip, hovering
a guideline instead of a fence
a tongue is nothing but a stretchy strawberry
and if you cut it clean in half
the seeds disperse, swearing
to rearrange the words into normal speech
the brain is nothing but playdough
and if you let it mold
the pink uncoils, forgetting Plato
remembering nothing
the smile is nothing but a bunch of ugly mirrors
and if you rip them out by the roots
the spotlights reverse, it only gets worse
and you stare at your self-destruction for eternity.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
Time has passed since the first time I saw her,
There more I looked, she seemed to look better.
Didn't have the courage to tell her this long,
Mustered all of it and now I'm portraying it in a song.
When I'm with her all I get is good vibes,
She's too beautiful, too much to describe.
To get this girl there's nothing I wouldn't offer,
Days pass by yet I cannot take my eyes of her.
But there's one thing that I still can't see,
Like how I look at you I wish you look at me.
Sleepless nights, meaningless fights, being in spotlights, loveless love bites,
And much more I have done in this world,
But what more do I need to do to get the girl?
Somewhere down the line,
When everything's fine,
I may forget everything,
But I'll always wish you were mine.
I cannot wait for any longer so gotta say this before I realise some other dreams of mine,
Hopefully after this poem every night together we can dine.
I know I ain't even close to perfect, there's every talent that I lack,
But I'll love you for life,
Would you love me back?
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
Spotlights on us
seemingly illuminating
and otherwise blinding
can't see the audience
can't tell the difference
between time and space
different manifestations
of each other creating
infinite mandalas
poured into rivers
tones rising out
of and falling into
silence
I trip over words and pick the sounds out of the scrapes in my palms
I make motions to pick up the gravity but my actions are glitchy, disconnected
an abstracted cadence
remote inflection
radio nuance
rhythm break
modal static living in stasis
ants on a screen as grains of rice
with bubbles in a glass of beer
merging like two tones
harmonizing on a
secondary tonal plane
move me like a modulation
end me like an infinite crescendo
I am suspended
over several tones
just let it go
and I am resolved
follow where the voices lead
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
The doors seem to be open, the room seems to pour out onto the lovely maple floor the woman of the house killed her husband on.
Writing is like drawing, you give so much time only to try to improve what's barely adequate and hardly deserving.
Much like her husbands love and his curly hair, not to mention the tasteless affair.
You can say you quit, you can throw a fit, but spotlights rarely move from the limelight.
Much like the fame driven actress, your morals weren't put into practice and Jesus wasn't there to act tactus.
Pennies weren't on his eyes, even after his demise.
They would have been stolen, had they attracted that bitter, mourning actress.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 10:20 PM UTC
A well-rehearsed dance,
the waltzing waitress tosses The Times
on table 1 as if she’ll actually finish
the Sunday crossword this morning.
She won’t.
Grease lined lights flicker on one
by one.
Like spotlights on a stage.
It’s show time.
Twostepping while taking down chairs,
she flows to the rhythm of ritual,
across a worn checkered dancefloor.
No applause.
In a dining room of Astaire’s and Rogers
she is the coffee choreographer.
Pirouetting to the ***
then a sidestep, quick! Quick!
Slow.
Warming up now, she stretches.
Switching on the metal machinery.
It grinds and growls as if it prefers
decaf.
Rings from rusted bells
hanging from the door chime
to the beat. This is her
cue.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
Helicopter blades chop through arid air
sirens fill space off in the distance.
Somewhere, someone still believes
the promise of prosperity
the American dream
but not much really lives in Lost Angeles
**** roaches and coyotes.
Police spotlights eye-ing up dilapidated
housing developments like a ***** show.
Cops driving slow on streets
that form lines like dope trails
like they're looking for crack
on skid row
or *****
on Hollywood Boulevard
or someone to talk to
on the last train to Union Station.
Helicopter blades chop through arid air
sirens fill space off in the distance.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
Congressmen, police and ministers
All can be particularly sinister
When they take it upon themselves
To think of us as shoemakers elves
Fairytale beings who then madly
Exist only to work for them gladly;
Drudges to work for them out of sight,
Creatures that give in without a fight.
A sense of privilege causes this.
As fate is always rather hit and miss
It’s not granted by common sense,
More like a caprice of something dense;
A dark deity that is impressed by wealth
Without regard to someone’s right or health.
And the scary people the malady infests
Seems unaware of the evil it ingests.
Limelight and spotlights are the energy
That often drives their ***** perfidy.
But just as often, these fools don’t care
Who knows of their arts, no need to share.
They while away at greed and perdition
And certainly need anybody’s permission.
They only live to gobble and acquire
And never need anyone call them ‘sire’.
The most frightful of these lustful ones
Are those who ply their will with guns.
They decide the good from enemies
And few seem good to these entities.
They only plot their murderous plans
Without regard to the rights of man.
If you get in their way, you are foe.
That is as far as their thinking goes.
For that is the point here, after all.
These creatures ignore propriety’s call.
And the same with society, it is true.
Those needs, for them, will not do.
They work sorcery behind the scenes
And create acts that are truly obscene.
It matters not what is wrong or right
They are ever-vigilant, day and night.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
or In One of the Bars in the City
You remind me about the brightest
spots here in the city. The spots that used to be your
memory, lavishing into the thought of the moon,
how it chiseled itself for the night to claim
it as its smile. So, this night, perhaps,
is a freckled smiling face. Your face
to be exact. How the stars scatter
correctly to form your freckles because
of your genes. Beautiful, sparkling
on the clean sheet of your skin.
Yes, this is how you remind me
about the city that seen and told
our story. How each wall of each skyscraper is
a page to tell a chapter. The flashing headlights
of each vehicle, how they became our crayons.
We are merely children playing, drawing pictograms
on counter doors. I mentioned skyscrapers. I was wrong;
there were no skyscrapers in Manila. Only in Makati.
But that never changes the fact
of this city, an open book for all of those
muggy nights when you religiously
places your lips against mine and eventually
against my skin; when you first made friction
talk. And it spoke every language I knew so fluently
that even our moans are words fit
for a poem. Ridiculous, jaded, fading,
but still, this mug of beer sparkle against the spotlights
of this bar. And yes, you are
sparkling like a city so alive
at the dead of night.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
I entered the display case
of people educators
subsidizing snobs
the multirich and companies
among tourists and inhabitants
who want to be seen
in the museum café and
with sophisticated pastry lard
the conversation with careless clauses
they quote from an authority
whom nobody has to understand
to get the intention
of the praised artists
The shop was crowded
Spotlights on show-pieces
fancy coffee table books
and chic presents
for the season and the next holidays
Especially the past
is on sale, postcards
of the attractions
and sights of the city
interchangeable
like the collections
which graduated stylists
cast in international moulds
to magnets for visitors
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
*Firelight Affairs & Atmospheric Starlight,
Rainbow Instincts Enlightening Her Satellite Twilight,
Quivering Symphonies & Colorful Voices,
Lyrical Abstracts Of Her Monochrome Noises,
Prismatic Rage In Her Eternal Sage,
Resonances Whispering Her Voices Onstage,
Vertical Ensembles Of Her Ecstatic Fashions,
Witty Odes Enlightening Her Arrested Passions,
Prancing Temptations & Provoked Mysteries,
Entrancing Her Artistic Waves & Surging Tapestries,
Storyteller Flares On A Perpetual Lease,
Intoxicated Mirrors Of Her Spiritual Release,
Lucid Memoirs & Condensed Revelations,
Inquisitive Glances Of Her Cupid Flirtations,
Crimson Armors & Her Reflective Scents,
Illustrious Serenity Embossed In Her Scenic Ascents,
Fluoresce Echoes & Her Scenic Prelude,
Coalesce Spotlights Guiding Her Summer Nudes.
- 01:24AM -*
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
~
October 2025
HP Poet: Pagan Paul
Country: UK
Question 1: We warmly welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Paul. Please tell us about your background?
Pagan Paul: "I am from Bristol, England. I have always been a Free Spirit and never really settled into the society into which I was born. I am neuro-diverse. I am generally quite a shy and private person. I also write a little comedy and love listening to old comedy radio shows. I like cheese (especially vintage Chedder)."
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Pagan Paul: "I have been a member of HP since August 2016. I started writing poetry in around 2012, but not regularly. I think it was around 2015 I became more prolific and took it more seriously."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Pagan Paul: "My inspiration comes from many sources. Nature, mental health, relationships, experiences, articles, books and my interests. But also from the mess that is my mind."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Pagan Paul: "What does poetry mean to me? Escape and expression for my creativity. Its a chance to write down things in a way that makes more sense to my neuro-diverse mind as well as to explore and experiment with ideas, concepts and imagination."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Pagan Paul: "I do not really read much in the way of classical poetry (Byron, Keats etc) but do tend to read some from ancient Greece and Rome like Callus, Praxilla, Virgil etc. I also tend towards the more abstract or psychedelic poetry of James Douglas Morrison. As mentioned I am a fan of comedy poetry by people like Spike Milligan, Henry Normal and Pam Ayers always raise a laugh."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Pagan Paul: "My main interest is music and the consumption thereof. I listen to a lot of different music from different genres. I have always regretted never learning an instrument or music theory. I also read a lot, especially with regard to the ancient world. The old myths and legends and folklore are also a source of inspiration for my poetry."
Carlo C. Gomez: “We would like to thank you Paul, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Paul better. We most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez
We will post Spotlight #33 in November!
~
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 3:41 PM UTC
Broadway is a mime,
changing its persona all the time.
Spotlights casting shadows,
on the victims of a tragedy.
Heroes showing bravado,
saving the day.
A happy energetic song and dance,
like a bright sunbeam ray.
Blackout!
A scene change.
Where does she get the vocal range?
She keeps running perfectly,
using her complex tools.
The audience agrees.
(Applause is her fuel!)
She hits the high note,
the curtain shuts, everything
blackens like nighttime.
Act Two.
Three.
Can’t you see?
Broadway is a mime,
changing all the time.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 8:03 AM UTC
a hybrid soul,
one to blend like watercolour
paintworks into the social canvas,
boys would stare,
at the star, gone dying, who knew
spotlights illuminate
the pretty parts,
the hips and the mannequin calves.
until the sun dimmers, like gods
dipped lantern burnt out,
and bodies are stripped like birds
of their feathers, plucked to glaring
scars and worn out faces peer
into the mirror - who is the ugliest
of them all.
they called her by names,
prettier than her own,
until she trembled into the
valley of the dolls, a dark and dismal
place with discarded arms and legs,
to build the perfect 'woman' -
a vulnerable creature, made to
be loved, to be wanted.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 1:55 PM UTC