The Puppet has awoken, and realized his reality.
That his every word, every action, every emotion, is planned; that nothing is organic; that his life has been set the moment it started;
and that he has never had a say.
The Puppet is strange. He dangles on strings, tied to a puppeteer.
Strings of wool, or silk, or unknown materials. Strings that conduct his every move, thought, and emotion.
Strings who were tampered with.
The Puppet knows within his carved, wooden brain that he should feel no remorse for being the way he is.
He is not wrong, incorrect, or guilty.
It is merely himself.
The Puppet has a purpose.
A mangled, tangled purpose; an unintelligible, blurry purpose; an unclear, broken purpose.
Or, no purpose at all.
The Puppet's show is a mess.
The show is falling apart; bursting at the seams; loud and quiet in all the wrong places.
The crowd is screaming.
But The Puppet's crowd is silent.
Silent, eager, caring, and sweet.
He is overfilled with remorse, for he feels he has ruined the show.
The Puppet closes the show.
"Closed Until Further Notice."
and the crew gives it no question.
The Puppet is secretly begging for someone to speak up.
They converse, but they don't notice; they don't care; they don't act as he does, with overfilling compassion.
It is their defining difference.
The Puppet's painter is here.
It asks the question he has waited to hear, yet, he responds in the only way he knows how to.
With denial; with mangled, tangled, unintelligible, blurry, unclear, broken purpose.
The Puppet's painter shrugs, and so, it is definitive,
that it slathers more reds and blues and yellows and whites; and the big-lipped smile, and the bulging jovial eyes, and the flaky white skin.
So he smiles when it has finished, for its work is undoubtedly wonderful.
The Puppet knows it is simply a lie.
He is not the red smile that grins ear to ear, or the wide eyes that bulge jovially, or the white face that hides his scars,
but he is the blue.
The Puppet stares into his reflection as his painter leaves.
Tears bubble and drag, blue trailing his face; he smudges it everywhere;
until he is nothing but blue.
The Puppet lays against his pillow,
wishing bark could shed water; wishing he could escape the eternal brooding blue of his room;
wishing he could escape the painful, fleeting play that is his life.
The Puppet has awoken, and realized his reality.
-Rue
YOU ARE READING
OLIVER'S SMALL COLLECTION OF POEMS!
PoetryThere's no really way of me saying of what's going to be in here, because when I write; I'm very unpredictable. But I can ensure you that I'll write with deep concepts in mind. Rue can write in here if they like, this book ISN'T just for me. (I wan...
