Everyone claps when the show is over.
The curtains draw to a close,
And the lively night returns to shadow.
But little do they know—
While the spectacle is done,
A crisis for the puppet without its puppeteer has just begun.

How do I smile?
How do I frown?
Without a hand to guide me,
How can I show myself to any degree—
How can I scowl?
How can I sneer?
If there are no strings to pull me near,
There’s no way to move while being sincere.

How do I tell them how I feel?
How do I show what I’m going through?
If the music stops, the stage is still,
I am trapped with no one to turn to.

So I will sit here, silent, and wait
For the next spectacle to begin.
Ready to be used—
To accept my fate—
For the outward approval of the audience again.
Because only when I’m controlled
Does my existence feel whole.