"puppeteers" poems
Emotions are the world's greatest mystery
Found only in the heart and the mind
Invisible puppeteers of our lives
Our emotions create.
Thoughts,
Ideas,
Actions...
All products of our mind.
These are all bound together,
Creating a book
With string made of our feelings and subconscious.
All of our thoughts and ideas scribed,
A self coded text.
As we decide what action to take we read these books
Study our history
Our emotions
But what happens when you can't read your own writing?
Often time is from taking bad notes,
Others it's because were too afraid to accept our own thoughts.
Medicine can heal sickness
But only thought can empty a clouded mind.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
The ****** of the east and west,
At Your recovery we all rest,
Lord is merciful but the people are not.
Clocks tick and the days goes by,
I'm afraid that you will never be forgotten.
The west will dangle you
Before the eyes of thousands.
For all the thousand things they want
Your agendas are quite right I'm afraid,
Perhaps they thought metal was the answer.
They were afraid as well.
Showed, praised and written about,
Cherished and awarded.
Our dear malala.
I can't help think,
Perhaps you're a puppet
And west the clever puppeteers.
Brave as you are,
I know for sure now that
You don't stand a chance.
Life might be short but it seems like an eternity.
For change is what you want,
You don't reside with the enemy,
You don't accept their awards.
When a government can't assure us change,
What chance do you stand with your words,
For you are just a girl with a bullet hole.
And half this country is drowned in illiteracy.
Brace yourself sweetheart,
Cause you are just another girl,
Where millions others are fighting a real fight,
All you do is befriend the woeful west.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
we play with a retired professional but
none of the other kids mind—
his alcoholism has gotten the better of his muscle
memory and god doesn’t he look bad
the ball is an old piece of garbage made from
a kind of industry plastic
half-flayed alive by loving kicks
that expose the moldy gray rubber inner-
sphere like some soft eyeball
and, behind one of the goals, the
boy who plays goalkeeper only on Wednesdays
lounges like a pimply Greek sculpture—
unable to move as an epileptic fit lazily
puppeteers his body while the players pass the ball into his gut
and I step aside, too—
my stomach aches so badly for the crispy joy
of cold cereal I can’t play—
some days are like that—shed of their seriousness
because it’s more fun to play without a defense
even though we’re always losing **** it I just scored
a goal!
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 5:14 AM 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
Once I was a sad clown
I smiled sometimes
but you couldn’t see it
behind the painted frown
I could pluck small
colorful *****
from my pocket
and spin them in the air
Blue, red, yellow, green
*Lies
Mistrust
Envy
Deceit*
They would twirl faster
Faster…
until they merged
into an ugly brownish red stain
Then stop!
To fall, into a
puddle at my feet
Another time I was a ballerina
A little girls delight
Another time, a tin soldier
A little boys dream
But I can only be those things
While I sit, with my eyes closed
and my conscious dozes
and I can no longer hear
the screams
When my eyes are open
I am once again
just a Puppet
all arms and legs
and bobbing head
that dip and sway
and dance
to anothers tune
Even that
I could live with
if my demise
had not come so soon
In one moment of lucidity
borne of dreams
I could not escape
I ignored the Puppeteers growl
as I twisted and twirled
with my own moves
but then I slipped
Alas
my fatal mistake
You see,
I was not strong enough
To move my own arms and legs
with my worthless
puppet brain
To even think I could move
without anothers command
should have shown
how much my dreams
had made me
Insane
I tripped up so badly
there was no hope
of untangling
my Puppet strings
I was bound so tight
unable to move
I lamented what
my actions had cost me
and I knew the pain
it would bring
There was no other choice
but to cut me loose
and my master
did not even shed
a single tear
I’m still a puppet
just an unmoving one
sitting in the corner
no longer with strings
And no use to another
Puppeteer
Nov 30, 2010
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
You are the type of boy whose got saltwater in his bloodstream, bones like coral, and a heart made of driftwood – and at this point I’m just hoping someday you’ll wash up on my shore. I have seen the broken glass and beer bottle caps tucked in the folds of your sandy skin. I know how you left cuts on the feet of those who walked all over you. They were never sorry and you always were. Everyone else was too busy molding you into mangled and misshapen castles, only to stomp on them. Your soul was tangled in a mess of seaweeds and deep-sea debris. No one ever saw the brilliance of the sun's reflection in your smile that made you more dazzling than a million diamonds. But I noticed from the beginning that you were more than a temporary vacation spot or a convenient photo-op. and the shark-infested waters in your head shrank to puddles when you spoke to me in words like waves. To this day I can’t figure out what I did to deserve to be the only one you’ve ever allowed to explore your ocean floors, but I am grateful. I pressed my ear to your chest like it was the mouth of a conch shell, and heard the entirety of your ache without you saying a single thing. Violent storms churned in your belly at the hand of faceless puppeteers; made seasick by countless careless captains. But the sky cleared instantaneously the moment I came aboard. The same sun whose rays you’d always been wary of, now kiss your face the same way i wish to, taking utmost care not to burn. Your laughter is a school of fish filled with more colors than I can count and the sound of your sleeping breath is an ocean breeze. I am in love with the perfect shoreline curve of your mouth. Every day I find various buried treasures in your hidden coves and sunken ships, and I don’t think I’ll ever tire of discovering you.
- m.f.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
Changing faces for nameless places
Nameless people struggling for existence in a nameless time
Worship the incoherent ramblings
Of countless babbling nameless fools
Bread and water lead the lambs to slaughter
Prejudice injustice demanding obedience
Nameless zombies
Becoming the robotic puppet
Of the puppeteers desires
With pre-programmed responses
Feelings not your own
Desensitized children
Of a race of morbid loving junkies
We render them fearless, then cry
At the mass of chaos they invoke upon us
Lost leading the lost
Devouring the beauty in their paths
The scourge of the free man
Who lives under the delusion of his freedom
Prisoners all
While the power sits upon a high throne laughing
Unbelieving how simply they all fell
And obediently they continue to provide
The avenues of deception for his rich existence
© Crystal Erickson 11/24/2007
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
we're all puppets
strangling in strings:
many puppeteers pull
at the strings
tugging us toward
Different destinations
the puppeteers choose us puppets--
or do us puppets choose them?
and they
use us in their shows,their
Meticulously
planned out games
of desire,
needs and wants
victory and
defeat.
sometimes!
some mysterious string
drags us away kicking and screaming
or maybe
we follow that string curiously
and our other strings break,
leaving the puppeteers with the
bitter taste of disappointment
and that other strings leads to the
painful
Truth
we refuse
to face;
the Truth
we chose
to avoid
at the price
of freedom.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
Hey there little puppet girl,
Sowing at your broken heart,
Puppeteer can’t pay his bill,
While you just fall apart,
Hey there little puppet girl,
I bet you where once new,
But now your cloth begins to furl,
And that heart of yours is two,
I see your dusty rags,
And patches of different cloths,
Your mouth it sags,
And you’ve been nibbled by moths,
Hey there little puppet girl,
Puppeteer he neglects you,
Once kept you shiny-now keeps you dull,
Puppeteer he forgets you,
But I see you reaching out,
Begging for his touch,
Mouths sown shut can’t shout,
And only one button eye can watch,
Hey there little puppet girl,
I know that you can’t cry,
But you reek of lost will,
And a need you can’t gratify,
Hey there little puppet girl,
I bet you where once new,
But now your cloth begins to furl,
And that heart of yours is two,
I see you little puppet girl,
Ripping at your stiches,
You’re no longer rational,
Your mind is specious,
Hey there little puppet girl,
Ripped to little pieces,
Puppeteers little pearl,
Your value he decreased it.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:00 PM UTC
Look up to the stars
Distant puppeteers
Pulling at the fate woven between us
Invisible strings binding our souls
To one another
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
I met a woman
with a trumpet tongue
who played her words on
paper, white as truces.
she told me through my stereo
"we've both had days
where the phoenix didn't rise".
we' have all had days
where the phoenix did not rise.
but thank goodness
my birthday was the first time
I heard your lips part
and saw your teeth spill oceans
of blue blankets across my jellyfish eyes.
I wish everyone understood the irony
of writing love poems to a lesbian,
but my hands never seemed to reach
the ends of my arms
like I want them to.
They always get stuck dancing somewhere
in the middle.
playing a tune only they can sway to
knowing all the steps
bouncing off every syllable
while others let their wrists go limp
as if the puppeteers needed strings
to tune their fiddle
for a happy song
somewhere far far away.
so take my breath again
keep it wherever it is that you keep
the gasps our ears give you
as your words pull the
heartstrings we forgot we had
that we forgot how to play
to wave our wet-noodle fingers and
conduct a life worth living
so full of blatant love
not afraid to make no sense
my chest was an rusty locket
the day before I heard you
and now I am so full of echoes
from it's tiny, timid click.
For Andrea,
you are a sketchbook muse,
something I have to guess at on my
worst days when there are no words
and the rain smells like a swan song
from the sky.
you kept me writing when there
was nothing left to draw
or sing or smell or see anymore.
when there was black smog
between my eardrums pounding out
the dying breath of clouds
you held me through tinny earbuds
and poems I etched in the moss
running over back roads in my mind
so I hope
you find peace
every time you find a microphone
and that someday, I'll play you a tune
which echoes through you,
with a tiny, timid
click
and a full breath
that resuscitates the open blue
until we are both whole beneath it
until, again, we are true.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
So you think there are monsters that wander at night?
Witches and demons behind every blight?
Laughing hysterically, evil incarnate,
Sowing your fields with their parasites?
So you think there are devils that live in your ear,
Right next to the angel that you never hear?
Examine them closely, and I think you'll find,
None of your actions are from puppeteers.
So you think there are angels that watch over you,
Because they've got nothing that's better to do?
Letting you suffer, sometimes for fun,
Maybe that's why angels go to hell too.
So you think the demons and angels are fighting,
Scratching and clawing and screaming and biting?
Come now, you know it, that if that were true,
Don't you think clouds would be way more exciting?
No, I think you know there's no God in the sky,
No Satan below who can be your bad guy,
No good, no evil, no nothing at all,
We invented them back when our stories got dry.
Scapegoats live down below politics,
Blame is our addiction, and we need our fix,
But there isn't an evil that was ever real,
Because sin didn’t die on a crucifix.
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 5:34 PM UTC
Speak of the devil and see who appears in the mirrors
Who knows better than you all your fears and what brings you to tears?
The voice that escapes through clenched teeth, grinding like gears
Is exactly the same as the voice saying the things nobody hears
Most all of the verbal abuse does not funnel in through the ears
It stays internal, verbal and mental commingle to create brutal elixirs
Constructing, seemingly out of nothing, life altering barriers
A senseless mugging in broad daylight and no one interferes
Just like no one hears my prayers
The real me almost disappears from years of hiding behind makeshift veneers
Hanging on by a meer thread, I think the puppeteers have switched careers
©2024
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 3:31 PM UTC
like a walking
smash novel
waiting to happen;
this isn't perks,
there's no ****
and no falcon,
and certainly
no flower grow(ing)
on the wall.
like a british
teen drama
or ******** of
equal magnitude.
this isn't skins,
well it is, just
less exciting,
less meaningful,
less expressive--
basically,
less british
like a discography
from thepiratebay,
or a microsecond
clip of sound waves,
this isn't a teen
anthem, or some
ridiculous ballad
written by puppeteers
who don't know
any better for
children far too
young to even
comprehend
the concept of
loss.
this isn't about
the strain on their
parents or the baby
in her belly, or even
about the ****** up
liver of a walking,
deceased villain,
no.
it's about the
universal and
ubiquitous:
hollowness.
longing.
strife.
the record's straight,
no thanks to me,
we'll all sleep
easier tonight,
won't we?
who am i kidding.
i writed (clever)
a wrong made so
many times before
it doesn't even matter.
it's forgotten,
no longer verbatim,
content to just be;
people describe it
by saying,
"it just is, man."
and that,
ladies and gentlemen,
is a reason to cry.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 3:34 AM UTC
I've been killing these verses for years
Better put my feet up, have a few beers
Better raise your glass, cheers
I've got a huge brain between my ears
The one that vanquished all of my fears
The one that seen me through all the tears
While I'm thankful for most of my peers
Others tried to stab me with words like spears
Thought they could control me like puppeteers
Just when they thought I would disappear
Laughter is all they could hear
That is when I would reappear
And be all like "I'm here"
And they'd be all like "Oh, Dear!"
And I'd be all like let's change gear
Tell me was that crystal clear?
Why does it feel like I'm in the Ionosphere
Well some of these peeps are quite the racketeer
Shame they'll never breathe freely in my atmosphere
gee **** listen up kid
I think I just ruined it.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
And if you say that they are the rulers,
then what are we?
Dedicated fools behind a blind notion.
Puppeted by clever puppeteers.
There are better things to come than those which we leave behind.
I might agree
But my mind is already made.
This world is planned ruins,
And we are the veins.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:15 AM 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
Gliding her fingers from soft to tight
The gilded marionette makes a move familiar
Around my neck, between my legs
She pull/plays my manhood the one who pegs
The tips of index, middle, ring and pinkie
A dismissive look,
with an intent to shrink me
Chased by insanity
Chased by a pseudo-chaste cock-ring tease
yarn controls my escape,
ears to ignore my pleas
strings of sadistic strings of laughter
strings saunter strings of master
strings of ********** yet still i walk her
as a ghostly orbiting satellite stalker
******** purple::: smile lust sensation
As the puppeteers rope cut my circulation
Only then can she strum her favorite tune
The Pinocchio Waltz played on a five string loom
**She tunes her string with every finger
A dismissive giggle plays the part of singer**
The middle for the daily **** you**” because she can
The ring will be for another man
The pointer lets you know her needs
The pinkie for the soul that bleeds
The thumb is for the empress’ judgement
Till she slaps you down, (I ******* love) her **** bludgeons**
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:18 AM UTC
Thoughts of the self-spoken
Left me wandering;
Tangled into the parable visions
As we gaze through the celestial eerie.
Mirrors from side to side,
I still can't see the myself inside.
Mazy patterns were confusing my mind.
Despicably appropriate,
Whereas the heavens of alas contemplate.
In this empty vast,
We see light from present to past.
Scourging sun diminishes darkness
Over light in distant visionless.
Blinded to see the real vision of the race;
To acknowledge the imagery painted to praise.
Entire race failed to obey,
Garner the intellect of marionettes strings,
Puppets of the mischief,
Puppeteers of a sheep,
The scent of the blood,
Descends a ripple from hate.
Cast the spell upon yourself,
And let the bloodshot eyes tell
How it visions the dark world's hell.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
Its frightening how
being alone and being lonely
are not the same.
A wise Greek spoke of a cave
and a fire in the back of our minds
with lips pressed to our palms
casting shadows of false reality
and puppeteers with hidden strings
and chains that sit
comfortably on scathing skin.
We were born in the cave.
I've come to realize
I am not the same person
at three o'five AM
and half past eight.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
Razor sharp
Always ready on the mark
Grit your teeth
Prepare to meet
Sharks and velvet puppeteers
Stiff suits clean cut collars
Spurting jargon to impress
Some other false pretentious scholars
Identically dressed
Fully focussed
Humorous jokers
Turn their backs
Once reached their purpose
Urgently directing to impress
The next unsuspecting guest
Who will help them next?
Meet those targets be the best
Never glancing back or forward
Losing sight of what’s important
They don’t care, are unaware
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
Eel, squirming in the flow
pure ecstatic
each gentle caress
sending shivers of joy
evoke the power of puppeteers
take my willing body
and make it dance your dance
Fireworks and warmth
covers and bath salts
smooth like good chocolate
-and just as irresistible
Puppeteer, take my body;
I do not think I could stop you
But please, have my soul;
for it is mine to give
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
I realized one of the peacekeepers tonight
And, as always, I spoke honestly
But against tendency, I was specific
-Maybe it was the drunken haze, but the vision had so much clarity
I spoke words to him, that formed without thought, nor doubt of mind
And when these naturals were vocalized, there was no need to speak uncertainty of that what was said
- in fact, these words, alike these at the making of my fingertips
Felt as though their mortality through speech or visibility, gave them truth that me or my subconscious could question.
This drunken conversation that was in obedience to circumstances
Was extreme and unnaturally passionate
Yet, disorbedient to sobriety, was fluid and understanding
I feel now, possibly to be regretted in the morning, completely confident in the impact made
He is good- as good as he is a keeper of peace
And my words spoken, although never able to be retold in accuracy
Affected me as much as I, possibly am mistaken to believe, he was to be
But here, in this poetic security, I wish to share them
He is a peace keeper, I am sure
As we conversed I looked to the greenery around us and they showed no warnings
Their leaves , as they do in sunlight and rain, continued to show love without worry
And that love, I felt strong, and thanked as it kept my speech strong
I asked- or even in my possible dillusion of high spiritedness, commanded, this man
In all the goodness that I possess and could show
To pass his negativity to my mound
As I do to all that seek peace rather than create it
You don't need to fight in this battle, my friends
For your role, is one much needed when the time comes
So save your fight, and save that energy
For your light is strong, and crucial for darker times to come
Should this message, this realization raise alarm
And the puppeteers ask of you those sins frequently ask,
Don't worry, don't hesitate, don't fight against their orders
Just breathe, sigh even, and act as you always have
I see your hearts
I feel that love long forgotten
The fact that you don't want to obey is in fact in our favor
Because we all know, deceit is their favorite game
But this deceit is the beginning of their downfall
As your want to avoid passing me the negativity, will unnaturally cause them to cast it in rebellion
But I am strong, and my strength is yet to show
I have your back, because I know you will soon have mine.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC
black is my mind my body and soul
white the light but it still looks yellow
past the point were turning back is not an option
revenge is only folly if success is valid conquest
belittling immigrants
who settled for scraps off our battlements
preposterous pledges by parliament
only campaigning for the next election
correction only acting for praises by thespians
who digress me again its a mess, sin.
what I'm saying is puppeteers puppet them
and they speak in voice roll
440 A is what rock sold
watch the room get cold
but even if I said it you still likely wouldn't know
its old
giving rhythm to a message, that predates me
but the soul
pours forth, so as for digging my feet
I may as well be digging a hole
like a mold compulsion
perpetual veritable intervals
in a vexing verbose
burying any chance for understanding
overwhelming cowardice
forces most to just live with it
a mask makes a brave man
so one day well rise again
hiding in sub-text
my plain sight re-utterance
if you do nothing you change nothing
now shut up and forget I said anything
gooble gobble
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 6:49 PM UTC
Discernment often resembles a fable
When translating the language composed by women
As tantalizing as these creatures may be
Various medleys of gestures so fallaciously are given
On certain occasions it appears that
One’s efforts have been green lit
When so suddenly red flags are discovered
Dancing amidst the clouds
Gradually the entire project
Grows to be eminently disheartening
Women, the puppeteers that they reflect,
Behave as if the universe
Is a vaginal duplication
Although society may deem that laughable
The results of such callousness
Quite strangely are familiar…
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC