The Doll

Only one stands out in a bedridden budding beehive
The queen a determined shining shadow sparks the shimmering shade
Shaking, even before she slaps herself; an anomaly they say
Starting from the place my birth took place

They call it the f-a-c-t-o-r-y
Yes that’s what they call it
Those giants who find pleasure in everything, everywhere
Who enjoys picking up me and my identical siblings
Trembling in fear, rooted to the spot; they
Acknowledging their presence with curiosity stands me
myself and I am strange, untidy and temperamental

A doll with poor appearances and quite an attitude
With a knack
Of surrounding herself with these giant creatures
Are few of the hidden secrets my siblings reveal in whispers
And what should I be ashamed? , says the queen bee

Only one stands out in a bedridden budding beehive
And that is me, a doll who has but now doesn’t slap herself
by a hesitation and determined to continue to be
That spark igniting to a flame: that proud queen bee