Strings dig into my wrists,
Carving control into fragile flesh
Moving me to their will.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I despise it.

"Be this," she demands,
"Do that," he whispers,
Their voices tangle in the threads,
Pulling tighter, cutting deeper,
Moving me to their will.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I loathe it

Moving my lips
The sighs
The whispers
The mutters
It isn't me.

Tugging my wrists
The twist
The tether
The weight
It isn’t me.

Bending my knees
The creak
The lurch
The stumble
It isn’t me.

Turning my head
The tilt
The ****
The blank stare
It isn’t me.

Carving my chest
The hollow
The knots
The splinters
It isn’t me.

Tearing my legs
The sway
The drag
The fall
It isn’t me.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I hate it.

I'm just a hollow puppet.
Bound by twisted strings.

Nothing more
Nothing less.

The Liquitex that smudges my face
It draws new smiles,
It spills new tears,
Blurring the lines of who I was.

Each brushstroke rewrites my skin,
A hollowed mask of painted lies,
Cracks forming where the truth once lived.

It stains my cheeks in hues I don’t choose,
Bright reds that scream,
Deep blues that ache,
Colors bleeding into someone else’s story.

The varnish sets,
Am I trapped beneath it?
Just a mere doll of their design?

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I despise it.

And the fingers that type these words?
The letters
The sentences
The poem

It doesn't feel real.

A hollow shell of bone and sinew,
Moving without meaning,
Guided by unseen hands.

That's all I am.

I don't feel.
I don't love.
I don't dream.
I don't care.
I don't exist.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I loathe it.

Pull My Strings Til You Get What You Wanted.
I Hate to Tell You, But My Love is Haunted.

To You, I Will Give My All.
Until You Cut My Strings and Let me Fall.

And if Our Tragedy is Where Life Begins,
I'll Pick Up My Strings and Love Again.

Lost Love is No Burden too Heavy for Me to Hold.
As I've Done My Time Living in the Cold.

When Understanding
meets Love and Grace.
Then You,
My Puppeteer,
I Will Face.

One More Moment, One More Chance,
Pull My Strings and I Promise I'll Dance.

Give Me Time and Give Me Your Hands.
We'll Pull Each Others Strings to Find Romance.

And If I Cant Be Yours Forever,
I'll Cut My Strings on This Endeavor.

You Were Never Less and I Was Never Better.
You Were Blind and I was Never
Clever.

Now it Seems Oh So Clear
I Cannot Love You,
My Puppeteer.

‘Does the puppet boy ask
for his strings?’
The way a butterfly
beats their wings;
against the glass
of the past
just another member
of the cast
for the play
That is life.

“If all the worlds a stage,
then I shall play my part”
But that stage
portrays such
twisted
wicked displays
of our
  sin.