You ****** my strings,
And begin my dance;
Emotion remaining unchanged.
Yet, I must digress,
What you see painted in my face
Is nothing than mere nonsense.

The puppeteer is anonymous,
Better to hide his horrid acts;
Better to hide his malevolence,
Better to hide hide his ******* of a creation!
O, only if the puppeteer knew,
That the porcelain he plays has soul, as well.

I cannot stand with my own feet,
What articulation is worth,
When you haven't a will,
What the puppeteer gestures,
I have no choice but to abide.
Perhaps, I was not meant to have a voice.

I am caged in this horrid circus!
I tire to pirouette for ghosts!
I tire to plea with silence!
Can I not be what I can be?
Lock me up in your satchel again,
Be deaf to torture once more.

All my words are for naught;
All my emotions, for nothing;
I cannot cut thy strings;
I see another day cease,
I clasp the midnight sky goodbye,
As I am returned to my coop.