discontinued doll

Like an old weary discontinued doll

She breathed all her music to her last breath

and now she is thrown down the dark rabbit hole

no one wants her, there is no one left.

Tears streaming down those glossy plastic eyes

her dreams deflated like an old balloon

times bumps and bruises can not be disguised 

as her heart drifts further from the blue moon.

The truth radiates through these broken parts

a truth that cannot be written or said

a truth that has been there right from the start

whispering quietly inside her head.

They say it’s better to have loved and lost

so cherish the moments before they are tossed.

Postcards picture…

Postcards picture perfect days

that magnified glasses will betray 

these fantastical notions

of still quiet oceans.

A mind, like a carousel spinning 

knows something is missing 

like a broken doll part

all alone from the start.

Dancing to someone else’s beat

unable to feel her own feet 

a marionette of expectations 

pulls away in every direction.

All I need is someone to lean on

a strong arm to keep me strong

A kindred spirit to harness 

the secrets and the darkness.

Postcard pictures perfect days

that hazel eyes will betray 

with the worn imperfections 

of a weary souls reflection. 

#NaPoWriMo Day Eleven – “Unrealistic Expectations”

A little girl waited for her “true love”

Studied her reflection in the mirror

She hoped to be as lucky as Jasmine

Happy ever after was her future.

Like the caterpillar in the oak tree

She grew into a pretty butterfly

But her one true love she still searched for

she concluded Sir Walt Disney had lied.

Instead, she wandered the world like Alice

created realities of her own.

She painted with her words; coloured the wind

She flew far far away from her home.

Just like Elsa she dreamt of letting go

All her skeletons fallen and broken

She sailed along life’s crooked road, in summer

Young and free, she left no words unspoken.

Once upon a time there was a young girl

who dreamed of meeting her one true guy.

Now there is a woman weathered by life

and beneath an old oak tree, is where she lies.

Composed upon a White Night

Melbournians circulate savoir-faire

in chambers of light, music and motion;

a coagulation of devotion;

virtuosity the hub of this square.

Pumping throughout the veins of the city

a plethora of colour; projecting

a collective nucleus connecting

in an atrium of urbanity.

The ground beneath me sending pulsations

a transient nuit blanche chasing the dawn

a sense of belonging; quite a sensation

when you are gone; I, we, will be forlorn.

For you are the heart, the soul, of us all

you see us; you hear us; we can stand tall

 

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