I feel like a porcelain doll

pretty on the outside

and hollow on the inside

my glass eyes look, but do not see

my ears hear, but do not listen

my lips speak- but rarely what I feel

I'm on autopilot

perhaps there is a puppeteer somewhere

pulling my strings

But my connections are coming loose

and when they finally break I'll fall apart

A pretty, crumbled heap on the ground

all painted lips, and silent, hollow ideas