Sitting on a Shelf

All the pretty faces
lines up tight in rows
covered head to foot in bows
the constricting laces
hold them up high
leaving them dry
who would think
that the man longs to drink
from these dusty cracked dolls
the porcelain and rose faces
with holes in their heads
those vegetables might as well be dead
their constructed and molded features
the lack of heart makes them pitiable creatures
the man doesn't see their empty eyes
but instead constructs lies
pretending their cold porcelain hands feel
but their non-existent hearts he cannot steal
frustration and rage crush
turning the fragile lives to dust