My puppet
Feeds on Fame
It stammers while remembering
A handful of names
She sleeps with her curtains
Wrapping all her pain
With strings made of nerves
And warm days made of rain


She can control
All her thoughts
And untouched soul
Which remains hidden behind the plot
She is a puppet
And she sees with my eyes
And understands with her brain
And if she speaks of rebellion
She would be abandoned
And killed



She would rather betray her dreams
A character at last
Amongst laughter and tears
She would see them
Cherishing her exploitation
In stories she'd receive no love
And appreciation
Oh but she would live through.
A flood for the emotionless
A puppet.


-Prerna Singh