This is a persona poem about the one and only Marilyn Monroe. |
Paula Lehman 10/11/06 Norma Jean “Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.” M. Monroe Life is hard when you’re A sex symbol. The biggest, newest craze And people line up around The block to get an eyeful. My movies are blockbusters And my mistakes become legend. Like the rest of Hollywood, I wasn’t born, I was made. Bleached, buffed, pumped, Filled out, replaced, made-up. After adding so much They ended up with Less than what they Started with. Wife, daughter, girl. Becomes the Blonde Becomes the white dress. Becomes the ultra femme. Or maybe just the anti-man. That no man can get enough of. A tweezed, feminized Pandora. After awhile, no one Even believes you’re human Anymore. Like Elvis. Like the Kennedys. Like the Beatles. So you drift—after awhile. There is no fixed point, No mortality, No relevance, No respect for life. Just the empty act Surrounding the hollow center. And as you spire down You try to fill it. JFK, DiMaggio, USO. Phenabarbitol. In the end, its oversleep And overwork that fills it in. The euphoria of being This new creation clouds it. You forget to live. And even your death is drama: A creation, an epic for the masses. Conspiracy theory. A simple death wouldn’t fit the Myth. In the end, the humanity fights back. You stuff it down and it comes out As a tick or a disorder or a sleepless night. It won’t be silenced And you no longer wish to hear. When the silence comes, It is never what you expected. The loneliness isn’t peacefull. The quiet brings no release. In the end, no one even Remembers my real name. I’m on posters and lunchboxes, Hundreds of books and DVDs And no one can tell you About my hometown, What drink I’d order. Even in Heaven, the angels mock. I’m more remembered For singing “Happy Birthday” To the president Than any film I ever made. Death is hard When you’re a sex symbol. |