Master Of Puppets

What if we aren't even here,
would it change, who we think we are.
Maybe you're a figment of my imagination,
just a thought in this mans head.
I ponder that question every night,
only I know the real answer.
We're born, we grow up and we die,
make the best of any situation.
An ice age will destroy all mankind,
or was the dinosaur theory all just myth.
When you die all your answers you shall find,
only I know all the secrets,
I'm not allowed to tell you why.
You all will know in due time.
I'm the master of the puppets,
pulling your strings, is what I do.
I say who lives or dies,
whether you gets rich or poor.
I'm in your head, I'm in your heart,
I'm everywhere, but you can't see me.
Friends all thought I was insane,
til I ended up in all their dreams.
I see you when you'er sleeping,
I see you when you're awake,
I even see you when you're naked.
Some of you should always be clothed,
bigger people need a stronger string.
I'm your angel up above,
I'm your demon down below.
Praying on knees doesn't work,
I'm just the ****, who pulls your strings.

i don't know if i'm feeling everything
at once or if i'm not feeling anything
at all

the blue lines never seemed
to fade
from my wrists
like strands of ice from the
Atlantic ocean's
tides
I can't seem to rub them away.©

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

You said you would **** it this morning.
Do not **** it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing

Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.

I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.

That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The trail-track, on the snow in our court

The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.

But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill-green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!

It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,

Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.

It's quite sad
how people make promises
about the future
because they have no idea
what happens in the future

People say things like
I will always love you
I will always be here for you
And things will get better

I promise

But
It's 6 months later
and you don't love me
You aren't here for me
and things haven't gotten any better