Is it
Too much to ask

That I
Will be allowed to soar

Legs balanced
On translucent platforms

Maybe
For once in my life

My feet
Will be punching streaks of gold

I would run
So far down the river

That flows
Miles above our heads

But alas
I must lay down

And melt
Into the crowd

Books devour the silence

that weighs down inside

like bright little creatures

they dream and breath

in their cosy little worlds

until each page sizzles

with a human touch

Porcelain white is painted polite.
Grown-up to be perfect, and pretty in lace.
Long shiny hair ******* with a bow.
A beautiful pro at hiding her woe.
Dressed to the nines with diamonds that shine,
to blind those from seeing her broken design.
Her body a shrine all knotted with twine.
Privileged, and coddled.
Loved, and swaddled.
Prepped for ascension,
despite the fine lines that grow in her spine.
Cracks in the porcelain, rigid and sly,
grow bigger with rigour as time flies by.
One more bawl and she’ll break above all.
I am a china doll, would you like to see me fall?

we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections