Keep pulling the strings,
Harder.
I've grown accustomed
To the painful yanking.

Take my shoulders
And tug them astern.
Back rigid as a board,
So as to never run blissfully.

Heave my head up.
Neck indefinitely stiff.
I'll never be able to gaze
Down at the flowers.

Wrench my lips further.
Cheeks excruciatingly tight.
So that I may amicably smile,
At people I'd rather frown.

Extract my laugh out from within.
Lungs enervated from
Emanating becoming laughs.
Which animate these artificial
Kings and Queens,
When I genuinely desire
To spill their crowns.

Force the tears back from my eyes.
As I stand reduced to a creature
In a frivolous sideshow.

Defeated.
Degraded.
Destroyed.


Master.
I do not despise you.
Neither pity myself.
You cannot dodge inheritance.
You cannot hide from the strings.

For we are born Puppets.
And become the Puppeteers.