Scribbles In Her Mind – Poem

On all the lush green trees, the lights twinkle like the stars in the night sky should,
Rooted in their plastic base with pretty winged girls and fat hairy old men relaxing,
Along the walls, the doors, the shelves of a life, garlands of fertile shrubbery decorate,
And there, on the door, the entrance to a soul, a wreath for birth, for death, for vanity.

Along the darkly illuminated streets, the orange glows into the mist, blinding birds and bats,
The throng of cars still strong, despite the later hour and their lights confusing foxes and rats,
Deafening noises, blinding sights and particles that clog up the air, down the soil and all around,
The cold chill in the air passes as the taped voices of a choir belt out graffiti covered hymns.

Surrounded the woman sits on questionable leather, alone in the crowd of lovers and mothers,
Forehead tight, cheeks razor bone sharp, lips plumper than her thigh, and the permanent smile,
There are no lines, of laughter or of worry, with bullets pointing outward from the peroxide curls,
The only blemishes on her other-worldly body are the delicate cotton marks and hidden snake bites.

On her finger sits a diamond ring, gold watch upon her wrist, gentle, precious chains around her neck,
She basks in the glow of an electric log fire, the tree’s twinkling lights and the obsession of eyes,
Silent in the conversation of her peers, she only knows what she is told to remember,
Scribbles in her mind that quickly fade with each passing injection of sunlight into her life.

Bags with monkeys on, only the finest from Mr Kilping for her gym-toned arms, filled up,
Planners and diaries for her hectic schedules, different phones for different coloured days,
Packs of pills to keep her sane, to stop her pain and her own inconveniences from nature,
Her only control in the room, her only secret in the room filled with laughter other than from her.

Her laugh fades into theirs, unaware of her true role in the joke, slotting in to their desires,
Inside the giggles are sobs, broken only by hiccupping tears of lonely, misunderstood pain,
Outside they see her façade, the face she paints on every morning, sleeps in all night long,
So permanent and stained across her, she believes she is the role she cannot ever fulfil.

© Persephone M 22nd November 2011

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