Young Writers Society

***i suppose it's sort of a story in a poem in a story in a poem***

frilled dresses look so pretty against skinny white legs
twirling happily on sparkling marble floors.
floor length windows let in warm sunlight that kisses
her eyes with stars and the petals float down and
knock against the glass like silk torn from an angel's dress.
and lemon and primrose scented cleaning agents
tugs at pretty pink nostrils and she can't help but laugh.

fresh spring day turns to wailing night
and the lights turn on with a twinkle and a wink.
smelling of cocoa butter and vanilla and little girl,
she twirls a diamond earring between her fingers
and looks out into the gasping night that presses itself
so firmly against the window, heavy with tears
that glint in the light of a cold moon as they shatter
into rivers on smooth lawns.

the pretty people in pastels arrive in a cloud
and they whisper messages learned from movies
into her soft ear, pressing against her painted cheek.
she is so beautiful it hurts them to breathe when she smiles
and aren't they happy when she stutters shyly over her words,
don't they like to criticize her every twitch!

cutting laughter echoes against salmon ceilings
the girls giggle and lower their eyelids in a
way they hope seems innocent and pure and their
male counterparts pretend they believe them and, later,
when they slip in pairs and threes behind heavy curtains
the girls will blush like this is their first time, just like every time.

and the one who is meant to be the heroine
stands by the door, looking but not seeing,
forming such a heartbreakingly perfect picture of a lost princess.
she twirls a diamond earring between her fingers
she thinks of what it would be like
to break free from the restrictions of herself,
to break out of this curious glass they have placed her under
and just laugh like it was her first time, every time.

she sighs and keeps her body very still,
so as not to shake the tears from their precarious perch,
she thinks, wryly, how much more wonderful the idea of this night was,
twirling alone in an empty ballroom and imagining something
more like a dream.

I'm impressed. By the title, I thought I would hate it. However, I'm glad I took the time to read it. The imagery was well thought out. The only stanza I didn't particularily care for was this one:

"the pretty people in pastels arrive in a cloud
and they whisper messages learned from movies
into her soft ear, pressing against her painted cheek.
she is so beautiful it hurts them to breathe when she smiles
and aren't they happy when she stutters shyly over her words,
don't they like to criticize her every twitch!"

Not to say it wasn't written beautifully because it was, just not really my kind of writing.

Anyway, keep up the great work. You did a good job.