Poetry [ Text ] ( Private: Section Nine Members Only )
What is reality?
I am a plaster doll; I pose
with eyes that cut open without landfall or nightfall
upon some shellacked and grinning person,
eyes that open, blue, steel, and close.
Am I approximately a synthetic transplant?
I have hair, black angel,
black angel-stuffing to comb,
nylon legs, luminous arms
and some advertised clothes.
I live in a doll’s house
with four chairs,
a counterfeit table, a flat roof
and a big front door.
Many have come to such a small crossroad.
There is an iron bed,
(Life enlarges, life takes aim)
a cardboard floor,
windows that flash open on someone’s city,
and little more.
Someone plays with me,
plants me in the all-electric game,
Is this what mothers of children have said?
Someone pretends with me -
I am walled in solid by their noise -
or puts me upon their straight bed.
They think I am me!
Their warmth? Their warmth is not a friend!
They pry my mouth for their cups of gin
and their stale bread.
What is reality
to this synthetic doll
who should smile, who should shift gears,
should spring the doors open in a wholesome disorder,
and have no evidence of ruin or fears?
But I would cry,
rooted into the wall that
was once my mother,
if I could remember how
and if I had the tears.
(( OOC: this poem, which has been altered only slightly for this setting, was written by Anne Sexton, and is titled "Self in 1958." It's true that stealing work and attributing it to yourself is a crime, but in this case it's just more impressive than trying the hack something together myself.
Also, I'm lazy as hell.
So, for the sake of convenience, time, effort, quality, and sanity, let's assume Musashi wrote this, IC-ically. I'm fairly sure there's no hardcore poetry buffs in this crowd, anyways. If it's offensive to anyone, I'll change it. Probably. Maybe. ))
I am a plaster doll; I pose
with eyes that cut open without landfall or nightfall
upon some shellacked and grinning person,
eyes that open, blue, steel, and close.
Am I approximately a synthetic transplant?
I have hair, black angel,
black angel-stuffing to comb,
nylon legs, luminous arms
and some advertised clothes.
I live in a doll’s house
with four chairs,
a counterfeit table, a flat roof
and a big front door.
Many have come to such a small crossroad.
There is an iron bed,
(Life enlarges, life takes aim)
a cardboard floor,
windows that flash open on someone’s city,
and little more.
Someone plays with me,
plants me in the all-electric game,
Is this what mothers of children have said?
Someone pretends with me -
I am walled in solid by their noise -
or puts me upon their straight bed.
They think I am me!
Their warmth? Their warmth is not a friend!
They pry my mouth for their cups of gin
and their stale bread.
What is reality
to this synthetic doll
who should smile, who should shift gears,
should spring the doors open in a wholesome disorder,
and have no evidence of ruin or fears?
But I would cry,
rooted into the wall that
was once my mother,
if I could remember how
and if I had the tears.
(( OOC: this poem, which has been altered only slightly for this setting, was written by Anne Sexton, and is titled "Self in 1958." It's true that stealing work and attributing it to yourself is a crime, but in this case it's just more impressive than trying the hack something together myself.
Also, I'm lazy as hell.
So, for the sake of convenience, time, effort, quality, and sanity, let's assume Musashi wrote this, IC-ically. I'm fairly sure there's no hardcore poetry buffs in this crowd, anyways. If it's offensive to anyone, I'll change it. Probably. Maybe. ))