I’m a wooden doll.
With a cage for a chest.
I do not dream.
I do not rest.
I think I feel.
But it might be in my head.
Can I dream?
Am I dead?
My arms are stiff.
My joints are creaking.
Someone has cut the strings.
Now I’m the one thinking.
My face is painted, and I’m smiling.
Yet, I’m here, inside,
Crying.