stupid little toy

this one spun of wild unabridged actions attractions reactions
she was never a hider
till spiders they crawled up beside her
(she, eating her words and prey)

fear admits mistakes in the truth's wake, sadly, promotes fake
and the girl
always
just
spoke
though sometimes
in riddles and jokes
mirrors, smoke,
were a foreign idea

she's a banshee of spirit
instantly unwise and raw at once
and the only saving grace in that,
is her agility in keeping real
though called upon fools to feel,
is the only sane in a chaos that incidentally, she should enjoy

now,
the leftover sickly scent of
the last impression
(perhaps of lies unmentioned)
is severing the cord to life's joy
regret: a
stupid
little
toy
no one cared to play with before
...until she became bored
tragic
plastic habits came seeping in the cracks, she'll smack herself then,
is that why, or when?
how what where...
why in
hell
does
anyone
care
to make a fool of real?

don't assume how she feels
or steal it away to make
some sick orchestrated play on words
what you heard
is perception (yours)
faulty reception (also yours)

this one spun of no-matter-what just say it
is trembling now silent
a sad day
to play
in this sandbox