I'm an old broken doll being broken apart.
I'm used to the scratches and old markers tainting the dirty porcelain.
They tangle my hair and put knots in my curls.
After a while, they put me in a box and store me in the attic where I rot.
They've forgotten their old toy decaying in the loft.
They moved on, and I was left in the hands of new owners.
They picked up my box and shout in fright when they see me laying on the bottom.
They sell me to a woman with one black cat and other dollies displayed proudly on her shelf.
She spoke kind words and suffocated me with sage.
She thought I had a soul that I was haunting the porcelain body. I'm just an old broken doll.
That's all that's wrong with me. I guess that makes people fear me because they know I'm used to it.
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Unappreciated and used and tired. Then there comes the long break where nothing happens. After a while, things come through, and your hope is renewed.
YOU ARE READING
Life Beneath The Words At Play
PoetryMy poetry is only to fill blank pages. You decide how to color it in. That meaning, you can interpret the poems the way you want. I only put the words together, and you decide the rest :) Yet another poem dump for my unorganized mess that is my poe...
