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.

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
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              ~

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

Hive of humanity
Bursting with vanity
So many bees
Always debate about the queen
Bloated
Plethoric
Excessive
Depressive
The state of things
Brings tears to me
Yet distractions give comfort
While the sky burns red
Quite oxymoronic
Never a sight, never more iconic
"Too big to fail."
Said the Roman Empire
Now we walk on their remains
Cleansed by fire
Puppets with no clear puppetmaster
Strings attached, who is the owner?
I see why people become loners
Donors of patience
Only have enough time
Before the world corrupts and detains
After the discourse halts
Who will remain?