"puppetmaster" poems
i.
A ventriloquist
When we were one
Putting words in my mouth
I didn’t mind
ii.
A mad ventriloquist
When we were some
Somedays, What Ifs and Maybes
Camo clad ventriloquist
A kid with a gun
We shared a sugar sack baby
iii.
Tired, sad ventriloquist
Even when we had fun
You spoke of days long after
Such a bad ventriloquist
When we were almost done
Mismatched lips, silence, and forced laughter
He doesn’t deserve all the power he has
Yet he remains my
Puppetmaster
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
The strings are in place.
The stage is set.
The curtains rise,
And you're brought to life by
The PuppetMaster.
All your life you felt as if you've been controlled.
By family.
Friends.
Society.
You've fought the strings that want to hold you down.
Struggled against it's sting as they lash out at your skin.
But in the end,
You have no choice.
You let them tie knots around your ankles and wrists.
You let them do your makeup.
And you follow their every command.
With nothing but a blank look on your face.
Because you're just the one puppet out of millions.
And you must do the bidding of The PuppetMaster.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC
O, almighty Puppetmaster. You think yourself God.
Because you pull my strings, you believe you know my heart.
You are the maker, the wise creator.
You self-centered *******
You truly believe your magnanimity is infinite.
Your strings are chains by which I refuse to abide any longer.
im breaking away to live my own life
my own way my own two feet
ill not dance to amuse you and your friends
ill be free to love and laugh and smile
WHEN I WANT WHO I WANT HOW I WANT
ur strngs are dum i dont need thm
they arnt me they arnt my life
no thing u can ever do will make me loose my hart
cuz this is me this is what u can never pull with any strng or chane
just cu
t
m
e
f
r
e
e
.
.
.
~
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 7:35 AM UTC
Unborn and already
A path has been chosen
By those that are not them -
To become another cog
In the inescapable machine that is society.
Born - early, half dead.
A step toward failure in
The eyes of their creator
For what they cannot control -
To be fixed and set right
On the path that they will learn to detest.
Developing - on time
To the doctors’ surprise.
The creator gives praise,
But the approval never lasts -
The environment is unsteady and
Unfit for angels to properly grow.
Learning - to please
Instead of exist as one’s own,
Matured in the wrong ways
For an angel of that age -
Molded to never cause concern
No matter the magnitude of circumstance.
An inconvenience to their maker
Unless they could be shown off
For the benefit of the creator -
In private often belittled
And ignored for so much as being a child.
In public a model,
A display of perfection -
Quiet, reserved. Listens well.
A miniature of their puppetmaster
(As what the creator allowed to be seen).
Yearning - to deviate
To become their own
Without the wrath that
Has always followed a stray
From the carefully chosen path
That their master has made so
Impossibly unachievable.
Desperate - attempting to remove
Their wings, Trying everything to
Fall from grace -
To be cast aside and never acknowledged
Or cared for again.
An attempt to be free
Executed in the worst ways -
Broken and bleeding they
Almost always return to
The way it was before as
Their creator sees nothing but
A way to start over and
Mold them once again
Into something unattainable.
For the rest of eternity
All the angels who taste individuality
Pursue endlessly that
Momentary tinge of
Identity; willing to
Try anything and
Everything to become
Angels of their own
Once again, well
If you could call them that.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 8:31 AM UTC
my strings are coming loose
at both ends
slowly
inevitably
undone
i knot them closely
hoping to keep myself together
i am frayed
nearly torn
almost completely
unraveled
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
I am choking
on the heaviness of the air,
the metallic taste of this storm
building, and I can sense it getting closer
electricity humming under my skin
and I know that it will break
and the voices in my head will do battle
with the voices of the dead and gone, carried on the wind,
and the waves will batter and drown my body
drag it down to the blissful, lightless silence,
and the wind will whip my branches
back and forth, bending, close to breaking
and I'll tumble though the stormy air
a leaf torn away from its tree
beyond control, uncatchable, dancing a frantic dance
but not really dancing, no,
swept along by the elements,
a marionette with its strings ****** by an epileptic puppetmaster,
tugging, pulling, tearing apart,
in pieces swirling, slowing, falling, landing
scattered over the ground in tiny scraps,
dispersing, fading away,
gone.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
You're the sun.
So beautifully bright that I have to stare, even though it hurts horribly.
I live in Antarctica, where you only light up my world half of the time and then leave me to suffocate in darkness for months on end.
You're a deer.
Unaware of me observing your adroitness from the dark depths of this brazen bracken which conceals me.
If I make any sort of sudden movement, I know you will sprint away into the trees because you're so afraid of letting anyone get close to you.
You're a puppetmaster.
Pulling at my oh-so-vulnerable heartstrings in the most musical way while creating the most fantastic and addictive art.
Your fingers are magic to me, and their slightest movement can either plunge me into endless despair or **** me up to the most heavenly of all cloud nines.
You're a siren.
Drawing me in with your sweet song only to ultimately unravel me.
You taunt me with colorful hints of false hope, making me wonder if you're really that cruel, or if you're merely unstable.
You're a child.
So oblivious to the obvious, yet incredibly innocent.
You brighten my day with your silly antics and sweet gestures alike, but you're too enthralled in your own little world to ever notice.
You're Doctor Jekyll.
Always changing your face from friendly to arrogant and asinine, then right back again.
Sometimes I wonder how I could love someone like Mister Hyde, until you turn into the nice guy again and remind me.
You're a weaver.
Excruciatingly twisting the threads of me into the fabric of my being, leaving little streaks of sorrow and joy.
You have shaped this tapestry in the most painful and beautiful way, and without your unknowing influence, it would surely be unrecognizable from its current battered, but unique, condition.
You're a thorny rose I keep trying to pick.
Sending me away ****** bleary-eyed, and smelling sweet.
I wish you could understand how much I need to carry you home.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
Dear Death,
It seems as if everyone holds a grudge against you.
You have taken someone from everyone.
You have even taken everyone from someone.
Some threads you cut short.
Others evade your fatal scissors for longer.
But everyone's thread demands to be severed.
But I wonder if you are only doing your masters bidding?
Are you just a puppet on strings?
A thread yourself, to be maneuvered freely into a tapestry by a higher master?
Being blamed,
mocked,
ridiculed,
just for following orders?
It's like punishing the soldier for the general's war crimes.
Or are you the puppetmaster?
The keeper of all of the strings?
Do you control the balance of the universe?
Do you send the demons to do your bidding, or do you do the demons work?
There is so much that is unknown about you.
We talk about you like we have solved your puzzle,
but you are a labyrinth,
everchanging,
everlasting.
I hope one day we can appreciate your mystery.
Sincerest regards,
Humanity
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
Every day I bare my soul
I must suspend my disbelief,
eradicate the need for affirmation
behind my every breath
so I can sing that
yes, I am alive and well
and worthy of something,
though I know not what.
These words must be trained
to spring from the shadows
unafraid to shout to the puppetmaster
their disavowal of its ownership
because they speak the truth,
the treasonous truth
from which I try to hide
but cannot
because they must be heard.
They will be heard
because for the first time
in these years of existence
I have the courage to declare that
yes, I am alive and well
and worthy of something,
though I know not what,
and still you are here.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
I've dipped my brain into arcane,
The power from another agent.
The power to become a saint,
Such sanity begets contagion.
My mind is split across the planar,
I see beyond what has transpired,
No fear, or smear, or peers to cheer with.
I see the end, and it is near.
My friend, I knew that you would come.
This work we've done, it led us down this path.
Our minds were one, our paths were some,
We reached too high and turned awrath.
I stand above, yet still you lurk,
I have become a perfect being.
My mind is flawless magic clockwerk,
I am a part of everything.
And in a single hurricane
No vain, no gain, no strain, no pain.
The world has gone. The puppetmaster
I have become and raised disaster.
I won. In victory- defeated,
Mistaken was in chosen path.
I see you, friend from world we lived in
And giveth you this sacred chance.
A genius that is mistaken
Is dangerous, but lies therein
A chance for mind to reawaken
From its misguided faulty dream.
A genius is but a starter
That still may choose a stupid path.
It's wisdom, friend, that makes us smarter,
Not knowledge of unclear past.
The world will end, I send you inwards,
In loop that threatens to unwind
With you, my friend, becoming victor;
Forgive shortsightedness of mine.
Our understanding was... distorted.
We stand together, now- as equals,
Our brotherhood, once more, restored,
We stare into the vast abyss.
When deed is done, I'll wait you here,
We've got so much we've to discuss
Before we get to disappear
Into the void amidst the stars.
I hope there'll be a variation
Of us within these mystic planes
To wisely propagate creation
And get to understand arcane.
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 12:58 PM UTC
Is this some sort of game?
My life in your hands?
It's always about you-
Never what I want.
Locked within my cage
And you tossed away the key.
Any sign of restraint,
And all Hell breaks loose.
I hate you,
With every fiber of my being.
Never forget it.
My wrath won't
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 1:41 PM UTC
They say that behind every successful man is a woman
And that behind every **** is a *******
A huntsman
Who lured the poor princess into worlds unknown with false promises
Promises of being crowned queen of his heart
Promises of being able to live in the kingdom in the castle in the air
Conjoured up by his seductive tongue
Dripping with manipulation
Laced with lies
The million-dollar tongue that once gave her so much pleasure
And later so much pain
The tongue that made her own so cheap
Sticking it down some random guy's at 2 am in a bar
And later on around said guy's manhood
In mechanical passion
The same routine every night
Different people, different places
Like a puppet on strings
A puppet on heartstrings
Whose puppetmaster is grief
May 28, 2020
May 28, 2020 at 2:29 AM UTC