Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"liquitex" poems
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.
0
Dec 24, 2024
Dec 24, 2024 at 3:56 AM UTC
x_mxxie_x
Marionette
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.
Continue reading...
90