Title: Doll
by Sarah from Durham | in writing, poetry
The doll is broken.
She's fallen from the shelf.
Merely a token
Of her ruined former self.
Her eyes are bleeding,
And she wishes she was dead,
Her once white dress,
Is stained a crimson red.
Streaks run down her face,
From all the times that she has cried,
If she could wish for anything,
It'd be a wish that they'd not lied.
All her life she's lying,
Bruised and beaten on the ground,
The rasping, gasping wail
of her breath's the only sound.
Her voice is cut off,
And she cannot sing again,
From every single time,
She has screamed or howled in pain.
Her heart lies shattered,
The glassy pieces in her chest.
Ripping through her organs,
Never again will she rest.
Everyone walks past her,
Horrified by what they see,
One thing I failed to mention,
That broken doll, is me.
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