Cutting My Strings
Watch the puppet dance,
Watch him smile and controlled completely by the puppet master.
Watch him follow her around where ever she goes,
Tethered to the sticks in her hands,
Moving only when she moves him,
dancing only when she makes him,
Isn't it amazing?
And when she's done playing?
Why she puts him down,
His strings scattered on the floor,
Like his heart bruised and battered with a swift motion of flinging him onto the floor like a toy.
What if when she throws him away,
He can't take it anymore?
What if he doesn't want to be a puppet anymore?
The shows over.
The control is done.
The puppet cuts his strings,
And walks away from the master.
The next time she comes to control him he will not be controlled,
He will not dance,
For his string are cut,
And he is broken.
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Hear my words, may they move you in whatever direction your soul sees fit
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