The Puppeteer

Pulling all the strings one by one, the puppeteer controls this town set he has built by himself. Making his creations walk around, keeping their heads held high to show happiness throughout this set. What no one sees is the broken puppets behind set, lying face down with cut strings and a limp body. He lies there for hours, days, weeks without moving. A rage grows inside him with a burning desire to stand up and say "I'm still here puppet man, you can never put me down," but the flame of rage is drown by the pool of sorrow and depression flowing from his tears. The broken down puppet wants to tell all of the others how as they're old, as soon as they're done, the puppeteer will cut their cords faster than he can move their mouths, make them do his bidding, make them say his say his words, but they never listen. The broken down puppet can see every single movement made by the puppeteer, he sees how this entire world that has been set up is a sham, how lonely the creator is, how angry he is with the world. So his puppets are his escape from life. An outcast much like himself, the lonely puppet feels guilty for his anger towards their creator, even if he left him to gather dust behind a stage. The rage becomes silent inside the empty body of the puppet, no heart, no blood, no brain, just silenced rage. Every time that the puppet gazed into the rafters he saw the flashes of light from the set. This would be his sunshine. Creating his own world in his cranium, taking shots of ridicule, words stronger than titanium, the puppet moves, cords not restraining him. His will power helps him move his limp limbs. Walking onto the set, he carries a pair of scissors to free others, clipping every cord in sight. My only question is when will people realize that that my words are the scissors that are freeing them?

Exit the puppeteer...

Years have passed by now, puppets roam freely. No place to stay, their home is with in themselves. The ones who never listened were stacked upon the shelves of dead and dying puppets. They now feel the same rage that the first had felt. They do not have the will to move though. Pain in their still, dead eyes. Never realizing that the words that freed them had also trapped them. Forever sitting still on a shelf, gazing into their creator's eyes.

Exit the puppeteer...

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
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