Broke, sitting with half plate
Pasta, butter, spice
Shuffle through my old clothes
I used to look nice

What is nice, but smaller?
Smaller, smaller, still
String bean and potatoes
Go fine together

The grocer tries to tell me,
"Divide, conquer, divide."
"What is nice, but smaller?"

I guess the grocer's right

I’m a puppeteer, I pull the strings.
Once I catch you, you are forever my doll.
You can hide it, you can even fight it, but I’ll always be able to make you do things.
You will always follow my protocol.

You may think you have a choice.
You may think you have free will.
But you will follow every word of my passive voice.
And I’ll use you to get my thrill.

If you ever leave, I’ll leave a string hanging so I can tug on it when you’re gone.
You may think that you’re safe.
But in the end you’re just my little pawn.
The path Is set for you and you cannot strafe.

For I am a puppeteer and I must confess.
I am the best at this game I call chess.

There's this wire I keep tripping on
the string that lays parallel to current divisions of reality
a plane of moments
strategizing time fragments that correlate with the general population
but keeps me cloaked behind a veil of
they call it
dissociated
the illusion that I cannot fully connect
my atoms don't seem to just align properly with the whirling visions around me
and I slip into the seconds of grandiose prophecies
consumed with the mentality that I will never be enough
that my moments will never really
quite line up.

A string plucked:
Soft, supple, pliant, auriferous,
Full-bodied.
Vibrations traveling in determined waves
Fill the chambers
Joyfully cascading down walls,
Ringing down halls,
The symphony crescendos and falls.
A string brushed:
Gasps, sings, tender, melodious,
Wanton.
Whispers traveling in hopeful skips
Dance on air
Lasciviously over-pleased
To be teased
And so subtly eased.
The string un-plucked:
Grows cold
Anticipates
Grows rusty
Wants for just one touch
Grows restless
Sits in silence
Oppressive silence
Until it snaps.

the red string was cut by your shaking hands
and while i sat there watching the string fall
i wondered to myself
"what have i done"

our fate was set by a being we don't know
but you took my chances away
so i thought to myself
"who will love me now"

I am surrounded by strings.
Strings I can see
And strings that I can't see
Strings that require effort
To reach
And strings that require
No effort at all.

As I lay,
In this woven world,
I hope to chance upon
The string I desire.
But is such a thing possible?
Or do I have to make my own?
How much strength do I need to achieve it?
...
What sort of strength do I need?

As I lay wasted,
Staring at the interlocked strings above,
I struggle to comprehend
What effort is needed
To reach the string I yearn
For so many strands
Interlock to form
One string
And one strand
Changes the string completely.

What are the twists
And turns of a string?
How many threads are
Hidden within?
What parts do we see
And what parts do we not?
Is this string the same one
Or have we picked up
Another?

How can we depend on
Our eyes and mind that
Alter images to the very
Moment they are seen...