Mannequin

By
Mannequin

The little trampoline of childless shame
Hangs in the dim lighted hall
Her magazine rack with her ivory back
Has made her forget it all,

The numbness of life
With insurmountable strife
Of losing her one true friend,

She knows no pain
When shown on a grain
Of high fashioned photographers’ trends.

Nothing stops her from dying
Nothing tells her she’s gone
As she puts on a little glass shoe,

The nightmares beginning
As she sits on looking
As they put her prince in hews.

They pay for her pretty
They make her feel silly
But she gives them what they like,

No one pays a model
To think at all
Or talk about her life.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback