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The dolls, the dolls, I make all the dolls, for the Master, I make all the dolls for the Master.
She sits in the front room of this place, while I am chained to the back, and people come, and I am forced to make more of me for them.
The dolls, the dolls, I make all the dolls, for the Master, I make all the dolls for the Master.
I work and I work and I work and I work, but still the Master doesn't let me leave, but that is fine, that world outside is scary.
The dolls, the dolls, I make all the dolls, for the Master, I make all the dolls for the Master.
My springs are wearing down, I hear them as I toil in the back room of that shop, I'm moving slower, the Master is mad, and now half my face is gone.
The dolls, the dolls, I make all the dolls, for the Master, I make all the dolls for the master.
It's been so long since I saw the Master, the chains have gone immobile with rust, but still I make the dolls for the Master.
I will make them until my springs run down.
I will make them until my cogs are broken.
I will make them until my joints fall out.
I will make them until I, as a doll, die
- by KuraNingyou |
- Poetry And Lyrics
- | Submitted on 04/23/2011 |
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- Title: Dolls
- Artist: KuraNingyou
- Description: A poem I made for my profile. It doesn't follow the "rules" of poetry, but it's not exactly normal writing... So yeah.
- Date: 04/23/2011
- Tags: dolls creepy master chained kuraningyou
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Comments (1 Comments)
- Chamomile Dream - 04/25/2011
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You're right that this poem doesn't adhere to the usual convetions, but poetry isn't about conformation.
I like it, it's quite creepy and sucks you into the enviroment. - Report As Spam
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