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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2184964
Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Death · #2184964
A poem bases on the imperfect perfect amongst us.
Her hair was red, frizz with frost
Crisped, solidity, warmth was lost

Porcelain skin, eyes of deep blue
Hair falling in wisps, reminds you of someone,
you likely once knew

how her voice danced, twirled dangerously in a box
of concrete and bricks, the soft patters of her socks

on the ground of the gym, you had admired her pace
she was frivolity, not a single strand of haste

born light, a light she had raised
tenderly, carefully, creating her grace

learning to sing, to talk soft whispers
that everyone hears, that everyone hears.

Her voice, less spoken, now lies
In the grass, strangled and trapped,
From the corner I spy

She had been happy, so happy, its profound
She was always so quiet, yet her image so loud

So soft, she screams, as she walks past your way
I hear, I do, but little do I say

Smudge, like a smudge, when you breath onto frost
A small dollop of black, perfect eyeliner was lost


Frosty blue, she wore, frosty blue
It matched her skin, like most, this did too

Her boyfriend, he was rotten,
A nettle that might sting

But her frost blue, believed
A wedding ring he might bring

As she waited, patiently, legs crossed
Her frost blue tint, seemed to be lost

Has it fallen, Ill check, When she finally clears
When the small crowd moves, and I can go near

She waited, smiling blue, rooftop high
He said he would meet her, sticky red she would cry

Frost doesn’t settle, on surfaces wet
But ice does smother, on the fate she was met

She had stood, abrupt, on the rooftop that morning
Just a day after, I had heard, her silent little mourning

Her dress that day, so pretty, emerald green
Not blue, but it matched, her porcelain gleam

She stepped, or leapt, at the least she travelled not far,
The ledge fell behind her, but did not dent a single car


Yet neither did she, as her limp bodice fell
Rested silently at once, like a twisted fairytale

Cinderella found no prince, for he matched her sister
Who cut of her toes, for him to kiss her

She was less perfect, much so, indeed
But she was louder, fiercier, more open to greed

Poor little Cinderella, her life was pure hell
But the trips to the furnace, meant her skin did stay well

And her work in the dumpsters, meant she found quite the bargains
In makeup and clothes and books, so her appearance never faded

But inside she felt broken, he made her whole
But her sister was entitled, to the entirety of her soul

So little Cinderella, whose skin looks so white
Lies quietly beside, the schools parking site.



© Copyright 2019 MatildaRose (matilda110 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2184964