"Porcelain Doll" or "A Story in Iambic Pentameter"

Here's another emo poem for all of you who are still reading. This one is in iambic pentameter, which may sound familiar if you have ever studied Shakespeare (it was his favorite meter).

When I was young, one winter night, I spied

A china doll upon the lowest shelf

Of all inside my ragtag nursery.

Her eyes, like reservoirs of tears, were large,

And beautiful, and deep, like stars at night.

I picked her up, caressed her sultry skin,

So clearly made with love and skill.

I put her down and left to take my sleep.

Her eyes followed me in my head, led me,

Led back with hypnotic power to that

Shortest shelf in that grimy room.

I picked her up again and felt the chill

Of risk run down my spine, I tripped

My breath caught, my hand slipped, and the porcelain

Picture of beauty fell, so slow, so sure.

I threw out both my hands to stop her death,

But my unsubtle fingers missed her path.

And as I watched she fell, face-first, toward that

Peeling, unfeeling old nursery room floor.

One blink, and she was lying there, her skin

In shards, her eyes so deep in shallow dust

The truest picture of true beauty lost.

I woke, and felt the cold fast sweat of fear

And tears of honest grief upon my cheek

I ran the little trip to my nursery,

To see the doll and there she sat, alone,

But still complete, her eyes so sad but whole.

And so I turned and walked slowly away,

In fear my dream should ever come to be.

I have not turned back in these decades since.

When I am old, and my paper skin tears,

When my eyes dry and I cannot find sleep,

I shall return. And she shall be still there

In that same place I left, untouched by age

And I will look, but still not touch, for fear

That beauty should somehow then cease to be.