Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god


She'd melt if the heat
Bears down hard upon her.
Her smile is always
The same, fixed and fake.
She wants to be taken
Care of, she needs it.
She's not doing so well,
As you can tell from
The blade pressed upon
Her wrist. She shakes,
With fear or relief.

Someday, she'll just
Walk away from it all.

But right now, she lies
And makes like everything
Is fine, perfect.

But she knows that
Perfect doesn't exist.
She is cold, she is hard.
She may as well be
Made of plastic.

August 10, 2006

Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem

316,524 Poems Read