DollhouseI live in a house full of dollsWhere everyone is perfect,Quite beautiful, and very soft.I live in a house full of dollsWhere nobody liesOnly becauseNone of us have the right to speak.I live in a house full of dollsWhere the curtains stay drawnAnd candles remain untouched,Though my wrists still wind up burned...Somehow?I live in a house full of dollsWhere the food is hard as plastic,And lead poisoning stitches our sides.We cry out in pain,But our mouths are stitched shutBefore we can protest.I live in a house full of dollsThat belongs to theGiant Ruler of All.She whispers sweet nothingsInto our melting ears,But nobody responds,Because "nobody hears".
Bloody InkFor some stupid reasonThat makes no sense,I believe that leavingBloody ink on blank pagesWill remove the blood stainsFrom my face.But I buy more red inkAt no cost to you.So I'm still spending myself,And entertaining you.
Velvet SandstormYour voice was softerThan the thunder in the sandstorm,And it whispered to meThe velvet black liesThat would haunt my unconsciousAfter the sandstorm ended.I was left with the shardsOf glass leftover from the sandstorm.The smooth glassSlips through my teeth,And slices my shouldersBecause it's too smooth.
Happily Sad PoetryI've lost everything that mattered.I write sad poetry a lot.I write sad poetry for everyone.Even you.But, for you, every sad poem ends happily,Because, despite how much I've lost,Now that I have you, I've won.
EscapeIf you give me a penAnd paper to write,I'll write a sad poemAnd come out alright.But if you give me a cameraAnd a bright spotlight,I'll take happy picturesAnd cry all the night.Because all expression is great,And fun in the act,But writing helps me escape,And pictures can't do that.
NothingI can't believeYou believed meWhen I told you nothing.Because, if nothing were true,Then it wouldn't truly be nothing.It would be a vacuum,Which is a vacuum, not nothing.To me, nothing means something.It always means something.But everything also means nothing,As does something.And nothing means everything(I whisper such promises,Already broken,Into my trusting ears).So, something means nothing,And everything means nothing,But nothing means everything.And something, all at once.This poem is nothing,So please blow it off!But remember that,Though it means nothing,It absolutely means somethingAnd everything all at once.
Burning PoliciesI write long to-do listsOnly to tear them up.I make plans for the dayOnly to flush them down the drain.I make important decisionsTo remain utterly indecisive.I devise my strategyOnly to forget it in practice.I outline my intentionsOnly to act unintentionally different.I propose my daily procedureOnly to panic at the thought of living.I write out my programOnly to ruin it.Because you certainly had a great timePlanning and trashing our futures in one night.So why can't I?Have you stripped me not only to strip me,But to strip me of my fun?
ProgrammingI am not programmed to love you,I am not programmed to fight.I am programmed to see onlyWhat's in front of me - fake light.I am programmed to ignoreEach word in which you speak.Because after I spent the night with him,I deemed your words "obsolete".But I must remember,Though it's difficult to admit,That it was he who asked me "can I?"And it's you I wouldn't permit.The difference here is shocking,And the Program begins to whirl.But it settles before I grasp it,And it's unable to unfurl.So you progress with your wing-woman;Progress it what programming does best!As I attempt to suppressThis unsettling unrest.Society has programmed meAs it has everyone it could,But that keeps me no longer from saying:If I could love you, then I would.
DamnedIn nearly the words of dear Scott,The beautiful are absolutely damned!Though I know nothing of beauty,Or talent, for that matter,I do know the curse of sensuality,And I do know, in possessing such cursing "beauty",Nature has damned the possessor upon the creation.I am cursed by femininity,And harmed by voluptuous nature,I am followed by the hulking desireAnd the shapes of my own shadow.I am stalked in the nightBy the night that craves an impossibility.And, for this, I live horribly haunted.