Dolls

For what is a doll really?

We're all dolls with dead glass eyes,
No air in lungs, our hands are tied,
And quietly sit upon our shelves,
Into our hearts the secrets delve.
Like marionettes we play alive,
Strings are pulled, so we survive,
Until our clogs no longer clink,
The puppeteer enjoys his drink.

Nothing lasts, our hair, fashion, or name,
Life continues burning the candles flame,
Until a child makes his pick,
We sit here pale and looking sick.
The seamstress sews her nip and tuck,
For age brings wrinkles from all our luck.
Pushed and Pulled without a thought,
Until old age, the child has caught.
And then too he, sits upon the shelf,
With dead glass eyes, for life was dealt.

Reviews

[Armistead Lindsey]

Ranked 1st in Pain 1st August 2016
http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/Pain/52935/

Ranked 4th in Your Best Poetry 31st August 2016
http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/Your-Best-Poetry/53284/

[Gee]

Rhyming verse, my favourite, and so well done.

[Armistead Lindsey]

Thank you.

I will admit, I personally hate rhyme schemes - they are so restrictive, so I rarely use them in my poetry. But this one just sort of flowed

[Gee]

Best steer well clear of my page then

[GalaxyGhost]

I like how this poem compares life and people to dolls. We are made as a slave to society, seemingly trying to fit a mold. So when people die, nothing else matters but what we leave behind. Beautiful poem!

[Armistead Lindsey]

Thank you - I'm glad you like it