#puppetry
#
multifaceted
not fool
not madness
crash water in your morning face
select your character in front of the gaper
harness the void in your recess
and begin the act that voices the business ;
the trade that will be this day ;
the interaction,
the fist and the currency
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 10:59 AM UTC
Store me in a foreign wooden house,
but please
let me out.
Daylight seething through skin
and bones I don't have.
Rain wiping hand-painted
stage pearl-white smiles.
Make me walk
and then run on my own
without strings holding up
my wrists and calves.
I hope by then a mile
knocks the wind out of my lungs
and while I pause for breath,
lay rest, look up
may it remind
me of the crown I wear,
the color of the sky.
Tear up scripts
made for me to recite,
and let me write
all the stories
I'd rather hear,
not just act out
with my time.
I'm not cut out for a role
I never auditioned for
or this life.
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 10:44 PM UTC
She was living in multiple alternated realities
constantly fought solis against luna you know
while experiencing delusions and fighting slavery
...Inside of his domestic kingdom,
she figured out who's characters were for show.
Oh god, the ways in which she revealed her own darkness sometimes was sickening but manipulation had before held her captive.
She became a victim with no strength to respond any other way than being passive.
This so-called king possessed weapons of puppetry and diluted morals, she applied fresh lipstick to her face and got ready to constantly give him oral.
Over & over again she misplaced her caring art, seemed to have mastered her heartlessness into a form of art.
Forever she remained mute, nobody sensed her pain if she sat there playing cute.
She stuttered whenever she tried to use her voice, people judged her for being quiet like if it was her own ******* choice.
...Trauma lingered in her mind and on her face, to whom it did not concern as long as she was cooperative dressed in lace.
She was fully aware this darkness she had endured may have triggered inside of her a personality disorder, as she crawled on her knees & repeatedly gave in to his wretched & violating orders.
She was no longer the same proper creature, she was all over the place and possessed heartless features.
How was she supposed to be sure of what she truly feels?
When she could not even tell apart delusions from what is real.
Developing h.p.p.d
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 11:40 PM UTC
I'm the poet.
You're the puppet. I
control
where
your
eyes
lead,
when and where you
read my words
with my spaces and p
auses,
drive you crazy with nonsense clauses
that don't always rhyme.
But they do some of the time.
Or I use alliteration around absently,
leaving you wondering what my next word will be.
And by making it to the end of this poem,
you have proven how poets manipulate your thinking through the use of poetry puppetry.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
They pull a string, she jerks her head,
They say ‘do this’, ‘ok’ she says.
Bound by the strings that’s where she’ll go,
Never feeling more alone.
But her head is wooden, it cannot feel.
They choose her story, that’s the deal.
So her smile it glistens, her heart is sings,
Whilst bound to eternity by the strings.
They burn and mark her skin so fair,
She curls up tight and says a prayer.
But the time has come to take a stand,
To rise to the challenge, no helping hand.
As the sun falls and the night creeps in,
She prepares to commit the most wickedly sin.
Whilst they cast her away and let arrogance fly,
She had been keeping a watchful eye.
The almighty blades, they shone in the light
She hurled herself forward, they were in plain sight.
The sting of cold metal, it gave her a rush,
As she cut the strings, with a final PUSH.
They pull a string and I’m not there,
They say ‘do this’ and I don’t care.
I see their game, but they can’t see me,
As I watch from behind the curtain with glee.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC