• Little china doll,
    with porcelain hands and a cherubs kiss.
    Tiny, fragile doll,
    your pose: soulless, yet still an idol of childhood bliss.
    Dear, sweet doll,
    if I hold you would you break?
    Would you shatter?
    Would you quake?
    What do you know my silly, pretty doll?
    Why can't you think?

    Empty and hollow,
    you're cold to touch.
    You stare too much,
    and why?
    You don't blink, you can't feel.
    You: a perfectly painted illusion of what is real!
    So aesthetic, static, corrupt and cold.
    You hurt me, I can't love you.
    There are too many like you,
    and these are such;

    too many people,
    pretty little people, are cold to touch.
    Like you, with your power to infatuate.
    They manipulate through passiveness,
    and attempt to hide their pretty helpless selves
    under "pure white" flesh.

    They, and you alike, are elated to know
    their shallow walls of flesh
    innocently mask their weakness.
    But, when something real touches them,
    I watch them shatter.
    They, and you, are nothing more but a broken cherub’s kiss,
    a frail promise of childhood bliss.