There isn't really any significance in our attempts
The sweater's string is being pulled as we continue to knit
But the string is unraveling and we are left only cold
The pasta on our plate is nothing but an appealing fake
So our bellies are empty and our shoulders are shivering
We lay there limply as we are slowly wrapped in our own string
Wrists and ankles bound by unfulfilled and color-coded dreams
An S & M horror show in the sheets with life, us, & we
Dancing like a jerky ballerina, eyes glazed over now
We used to know how to walk and talk, but we've forgotten how
So as puppets we are told that we are not cold nor hungry
And that everything is fine and everything is as it seems
So we smile, thinking our wooden houses can make us happy
We don't notice that everything is painted the same color
Or girls and boys look exactly like their fathers and mothers
And we are just waiting to be piled onto the dead heap
Of broken toys and broken dreams that sometimes plagues our deep sleep
That feeling when you get really sad sometimes, that's what that is
So cut your strings, and think some things, breathe out as human again
The puppeteer has no time to hear of a few strings snapping
He has his hands full keeping down the human spirit, you know?
And when he's sleeping, cut off his fingers and his little toes
I know you are worried because you are tiny and alone
But he can't do anything if he has nothing to control
If the blade is still ******, do not clean any of it off
Use the blood and blade to cut the strings and soak their wood awash
Wood stained red, breathe life again, their eyes light up with words unsaid
And the lonely alabaster trees are swaying in the breeze
Red streamers tied to the branches to signify what is free
If only someone really had the courage to cut the strings
*I could go for the gritty, teeth-biting, ******, anarchy.
© Amara Pendergraft 2013