#puppeteer
Another year, another puppeteer
I try to tame the sea in front of me
Cherry-cheeked cheerleader
I’ve never played for just one team
My responsibility is to watch you leave
I fall without knowing what lies beneath
Can’t let go of what I can’t control
That’s my responsibility
Take the mirror away from me- it’s all I see
Look onto the ocean and understand it’s deep
My responsibility is to accept what’s not up to me
Another year, another frontier
I wash away in the sea in front of me
That’s my responsibility
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 9:07 PM UTC
The shadow in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my father.
He stands behind my mother’s chair like an advisor to the queen.
He does not poison her mind or plan treason against her throne.
Her tyranny extends to the invisible shackles on his long-broken mind.
The ghost in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my brother.
Though he has died, he never passed on to the better place he deserves.
His phantom lingers in my mind, trying to reach out and touch this plane.
He can’t feel the tender dew on the soft grass unless he uses my hands.
The witch in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my sister.
Though she has left the inner coven, she is still trapped under her oath.
Her spells of cord-cutting and separation can only do so much against it.
As her mistress sleeps, her work to free herself from her bond does not stop.
The monster in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my mother.
She controls our movements like a puppet on a string, never stopping.
There is no freedom to reign over my or my family’s actions but hers.
Her little marionettes may never break free from the suffering they endure.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 9:43 PM UTC
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.
Dec 24, 2024
Dec 24, 2024 at 3:56 AM UTC
Oh where, oh where is the puppeteer?
Surely he's moved on to another career
Up and left a lot of us just hanging here
Swung gently by a lonely gust of meandering air
As we masquerade as some fleshy chandelier
What could've happened to cause a reaction so severe?
No surprise to the wise that a why has never been made clear
Knowing nothing but to my right is doubt, to my left is fear
Needless to say, that's all I'm privy to hear
Day in and day out, long enough that it's easier to tally by the year
I was unaware that a situation could even be cavalier
I've held onto memories that now serve as an unwanted souvenir
And no one can know for sure, but I believe I just shed my last tear
But that doesn't mean the emotions disappear, no, they just blur and cohere
With a jump scare they premiere as unfamiliar in a mirror
But I have no desire, I don't have the will to explore a new frontier
Hey, look here, is that salvation or an end that draws near?
I'm going to stick around just to be clear on who's here
Cause I've been fool before by an imposter Paul Revere
©2024
Jan 28, 2024
Jan 28, 2024 at 1:58 AM UTC
Different puppets
Same hand
Or is it
Same puppet
Different hands
Oct 3, 2020
Oct 3, 2020 at 12:26 AM UTC
#*Shoulders slouch
The limbs attached to the strings
In hands of the puppeteer
Do the dance, or do not bend
There is a chance
You dance
Or learn to ignore
The hands of the puppeteer*
✨✨
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 2:57 PM UTC
They sit around swapping
lies to spread to the masses
with their agenda sounding whole
and their actions proving doomful.
Failure lead by
atrocity after atrocity,
they hide their mistakes
with the lies they spread.
They are flawed
and can’t be contained
unless it’s all wiped
out and life
starts anew
leaving the rest with some
more fat to chew
maybe how it should've been
in the first place.
Feb 28, 2020
Feb 28, 2020 at 2:23 AM UTC
She sits in silence upon the bed
hands folded neatly, but with drooping head.
Her gossamer chords, silvery and fair
float gently through the winter's evening air.
Slowly his music fills her hollow form
as she waits for him to strum her gossamer chords.
A dancing silhouette, bending to his will
spiraling, swirling, or capriciously still.
His fingers dance across those gossamer chords
as she silently floats across the floor.
Tirelessly she performs the night through
never once missing her cue.
As his haunting music begins to fade
and he slowly turns away.
She slumps back against the bed
hands folded neatly, but with drooping head.
ALesiach © 02/16/2015
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 6:15 PM UTC
though a joy, a laugh,
for lonely forms.
on grim evenings,
he craves control....
his soul threaded to countless strings
all tugged and ****** by his woeful skin
after several flawed attempts
his burdened psyche
gives a clamorous roar
for he believed
he had been, the puppeteer
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 12:47 PM UTC
Motionless they sit,
Collecting dust on the shelf.
Completely inanimate,
An honest reflection of oneself.
I grab hold of the string,
No audience, no stage.
Now controlling this thing,
With my uncontrolled rage.
I give it a tug,
I crave the control.
Enacting a shrug,
I tug and I pull.
I've given it life,
I can take it away.
In spite of my strife,
It's now back on display.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
I am your puppet.
You pull my strings.
Make me dance,
for it's you I please.
I am your puppet.
Thing is, I'm not.
You treat me like a toy
and it needs to stop.
You act like I'm on the bottom
and you're at the top.
I am not your puppet,
I am not your game.
That's it.
You will not play with me today.
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
Imagine something by your side
A haunting black abyss
It never leaves; it wants you dead
It will cease you to exist
Imagine it's your controller
The puppeteer with the strings
You have no soul; it ****** it dry
You're an angel without wings
Imagine its our only friend
A seeing eye into your core
You trust in it; it's all you know
You cannot remember a life before
Imagine it's your arch enemy
It disavows you to feel joy
It's your everything and your nothing
A nemesis you cannot destroy
Imagine being free of this entity
Where happiness is bound
But I don't dream of such things;
It's beyond my conception
I'm the lost and never found
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 6:55 PM UTC
I'm so tired of fighting the demons in my head, but how long will it take before I realize you're controlling them.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
Children play with puppets,
little rag dolls with yarn hair and felt dresses.
Their voice morph to characters,
yet their giggles remain the same.
Children play with puppets,
living the life they've always dreamed of.
Through cardboard sets and imagination,
the puppets explore the world.
Children play with puppets,
and earn a false sense of freedom.
Their words and actions are not their own,
though little to their knowledge.
Children play with puppets,
until those puppets wear thin.
They're left in dust, have lost the trust,
of their controlling child puppeteer.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 4:22 PM UTC
Puppet, puppet,
dance to my whim.
Squirm under string,
and bend to my will.
Puppet, puppet,
hear my call.
Listen only to my word,
and never anything more.
Puppet, puppet,
ever breaking.
Your strings will snap,
and you will fall.
Puppet, puppet,
where have you gone?
Who am I
without my marionette?
Puppeteer, puppeteer,
where did you
get your strings?
who do you dance for?
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 8:29 PM UTC
I was your puppet, and you my puppeteer
I knew no other comfort than the one that was here
You pulled my strings this way and that
You brushed my hair underneath my hat
I sang when you said
I danced at your cue
I even balanced on your head
I would do anything for you
But now you are gone
You have cut my strings
You left me timid as a fawn
But at least I had your rings
As I grew, I became more brave
There was one thing I had come to crave
I was glad I still had your rings
So that I could buy myself a set of strings
I may have started out the runt
But now I'm the leader of the hunt
Yes those are howls you hear
For you are my puppet, and I your puppeteer
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 11:10 PM UTC
Only dolls bound by string
and string bound to a puppeteer
lets break free
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 6:52 AM UTC
God is like a puppeteer,
That He should fashion invisible strings
To move about the dancing stars in the expanse of the midnight sky;
To bathe the Earth with light and wild colours from a new Sun;
To clothe the lofty mountains in snow;
To raise and lower the ocean tides through the pull of the Moon;
To cause foundations to tremble before His earthquakes;
To split the dark horizon with His lightning;
To give the breeze the voice of a gentle whisper;
To embrace the valleys with sweet-smelling grass and fragrant lilies;
To provide song and flight to many birds;
To shake the boughs of a mighty tree and let fall richly delicious fruit…
So that all these things might call our attention,
Gather us all to sit down before them, watch, and fall silent.
And see
And listen
And feel
And smell
And taste
The wonders of the glorious show of His love.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
the clouds looked like they were suspended there by strings. and you were the puppet master for this show. you called all of the shots and there was nothing that I, as a simple puppet, could do. you were hypnotic, mesmerizing me as I followed your every instruction as you moved your hands about. that's all that it took; a simple hand movement. I couldn't stop myself, I really couldn't help it. I had no choice but to fall into your every word and trust that every action you performed was for me. my heart. my soul. my well being. however, you were truly only putting on a show. it was for audiences' entertainment. it was never for me, or even remotely about me. you then retired from your position as a puppet master and moved on. as you have left me sitting on this shelf, I am tortured by her presence in your life. yet I am but a puppet, your puppet, and I cannot seem to break this spell. if only I were like Pinocchio. maybe if I were a real girl, you'd love me too. -hvj
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
*when the puppet
finally
breaks free
of his strings
you'd better be
careful
that he
does not
choke you
with them*
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 3:33 PM UTC
The Puppeteers Master
Controlling all his strings
All his movements
All his thoughts
But never the Puppeteers Puppets
The Puppeteers Puppets
Being controlled by the already controlled
Their strings tugging and pulling
To be free
To be honest to themselves
The Puppeteer
Stuck in between
Never allowed freedom
Never giving freedom
But always thinking
About what it'd be like
Being the ultimate Master of everyone else
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
A war is going on.
Yet no one notices.
There are soldiers everywhere.
Here a kid brings a gun to school.
There a girl offers her friend a drug.
They are soldiers.
Here a friend sways the kid with the gun.
There the sister brings the friend from the drug.
They are soldiers.
The war continues.
Some see the puppets but not the puppeteer.
Some see the wound but not the weapon.
A war is going on.
And I'll be getting those,
Who hear the horn of heaven.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
Candleabra's flickering flames
cast a shimmering dancing
shadow of me,
upon my golden coffer overhead,
brought about by a sudden gust
of window-wind... God's finger-breeze...
Master airy-finger puppeteer
you are
dance the leaves
about my Autumn yard...
Push and stir
soft light newly blanketed wintry snow
on lifting eddies,
causing flying fancy, barnyard dancer's dos-a-dos
among infinitesimal,
and featherweight
delicately frozen
crystal-looking flakes...
Push tiny tango waves
upon reflected sparkling silvery lakes
that crest s l i d e then fall
And spectator trees
that enciricle about the watery ballroom-lake
surface-floor,
then with airy fingertips
clap, clap together
the loudly whispering and rustling leaves
that applaud
the watery dancing waves below...
And with windy fingertips
sail white billowing cotton like
vapor-sails
across an unplowable
oceanless
spatial blue...
Glad God
You mostly are
puppeteer of every star
Dance sundries of objects
on your play-ball planet
and puppet-likened stage
And let me laugh
in zestful rage
about danceable things
that can be danced,
that can be danced
on windy-finger days...
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
The puppeteer is the fool,
delivering drugs like a mule,
unaware of his crime,
he will pay a price of time.
The puppeteer approaches his boss,
in a room with some moss.
A man with two tears tattooed on his face,
holds out the his gross overpay and hands him mace.
The Puppeteer walks with what he believes is just cheats,
not hearing the sound of foot beats.
to late to block,
he is clocked.
The puppeteer protects what is his,
the boy beats him without a single miss,
out comes his hero in a baseball cap,
threatening the boy he tries to leave the map.
The puppeteers pride is damaged,
and takes the bat hitting his atter leaving him in bandages.
paying off the right people the man with tear tattoo's
make all the charges become taboo.
The puppeteer reads the news,
the boy he attacked might be set a new,
sitting by the rail on valentines day,
his friend approaches with a blush like a bae.
The puppeteer hears the boy say love,
he pushes his into the wall not wanting to be his dove,
though secretly he feels different,
and his hero can tell and kisses him not ashamed he is indifferent.
The puppeteer panics he is set a miss
for he never expected to receive a kiss,
he shoves him off and yells queer,
his heart is set with fear.
The puppeteer sees him sit down next to him,
his girlfriend near he won't mention it Kim,
looking for justice an older brother show up,
though he is ignored as his opponent sips from a cup.
The puppeteer hears a shot be fired,
he realises he is deaths desire,
when all went black,
his eyes open to see the gunman be pushed a back.
The puppeteer smiles for he has won,
till his hand touched someone,
looking to the side their lies the hero,
and the puppeteers sanity hits zero.
Complete our dream that is his last call,
before the hero's eyes will fall.
an unmarked grave is mentioned through my rhyme,
nothing can heal the heart not even time.
One goal is set in mind,
and he will accomplish it in do time,
to become an artist of the written word,
only then can the puppeteer become a bird.
The puppeteer lives no more,
for now he closes the past's door.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC