Dollhouse Poem by Ben Sparaco

A perfect house,
No torture or a blood thirsty spouse,
No holes or tears only a mouse,
And not a fear of being ripped by the hair only louse,
Young children with a cold happy face,
Knowing their world was a place,
Where with their parents they were safe,
But not for me for I dream of a wooden case,
Afraid to run home,
Only to have a voice drown in screaming i am alone,
And catatonia my head would roam,
Fathers face as cold as stone,
My dream with a happy family only a dream with wrists,
And those days of turning back are slit,
Words I try to speak come out cyst,
I am a prisoner caught in the midst,
I know these dolls will bear me a knife,
And my reflection in deaths solemn scythe,
My body stricken with pain is all a rife,
For one day they shall take my life,

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