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The Bleachers Bench

Barbie done grown up
The plastic house must’ve got smaller
And her shell for the spirit
Now houses more than who you knew
Multiple personalities
Multiple personal ties
The Kens and other action figures
In their technicolor candy paint cars
With other hunks waiting their turn
Taking away pieces of who she was
Peace of mind is a box for the heart
And she’ll rather not conform
But the price of the thrill is endorphins
So she keeps a powder bag close-by
Just enough to look happy tonight
Enough mascara to paint on a smile
Multiple personalities
Multiple personal ties
What gets lost in the end is “i” – yourself
Character traded in for lifestyle perks
Barbie done grown up
Look at all the eyes in her direction
Yet not a finger to point her the right way
She is National Cake at the parties
Icing on the out, cold and lacking within
The sweetest ones are the most bitter
Barbie on the out, but Chuckie within
Multiple personalities
Multiple personal ties
Depending on who handles the dolly
Her voice is lost, conscience severed
Screaming from the Bleachers
But we hardly hearken her
Tales from the nosebleed section
Just another woman’s problems maybe
Make-up can’t mask the sunken sockets
Fixed eyelashes lash out at the world
Yet you only see her beautiful bright eyes
You see just a cute proportionate nose
But she struggles just to breathe
You love her small over-pierced ears
But she waits forever to hear from God
Barbie done grown up
Look at those glossy red killer lips
Stained by a dead/bleeding inner voice
You observe her beautiful flowing hair
But she’s sacrificed, more than Brazilians
She’ll break an arm and leg for you
But you think barbies fix back so easily
Her high heel Louboutins prod your libido
But her self-esteem is at an all time low
We’re all victims somehow
Venting out from the Bleachers bench
The cheap seats affected our outlook
But life is one hell of a show still
She’s seen it all and so she’s changed
Roses are not without their barbs
And Barbie is all grown up now
The deflowered will bloom again
The plastic house must’ve got smaller
And that shell for her spirit
Now houses more than who you knew
Because every woman’s got her story
Only, toddlers hardly listen

Author’s Remark: Dedicated to those beautiful ones baited out by the flashy life/lights, only to perish by the innocence of the Anglerfish.

By Nigel Neil Miles Amable.

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