Poetic Justice

Puppets on a string

Once, as I was sitting on a park bench, Inhaling the fresh winter air,
I had a strange encounter,
That still has me thinking to this day.

An old man walked over to me,
His hair was wild,
Almost matching the craziness in his
Eyes.

He sat down next to me,
Gave me one glance,
And turned to look at the rest of the
People.

"Puppets on a string."
He said, it was more of a whisper.
After a few moments of painful
Silence,
Me fighting the urge to just politely
Stand up and walk away,
He spoke again.

"Do you know what that is?
Puppets on a string?"
He asked, not even looking at me.
I shook my head.
Perhaps it was a show he had once,
A long long time ago,
Enjoyed as a child.

"Do you not see it?
The people walking past us?
Look at them laughing,
The unexpected grins on their faces."
He said, bitterly.

"They were born into this world,
Much like you and I,
But they were told,
Much like you and I,
How to do just about everything,
What to say, what to do."

"You see the wind?"
He asked, pointing aimlessly at the
Air.
I shook my head, clearly thinking the
Man has lost his mind.

"You don't see it, but you feel it,
Don't you? Much like you don't see
Happiness, you feel it.
That's what the strings are like too.
We don't see them, we try to ignore
Them, but they will always be there."

The man said as he turned to look at
Me.
His eyes were sad, full of an unknown
Misery.

"Strings? Which strings?"
I asked, not understanding where his
Aimless ranting was leading to.
"See, we were born into a world,
Their world. A world already in Progress.
The language you speak, is not yours,
The ground you tread, does not
Belong to you,
The sky you look up to, Is not meant
To be a feast for your eyes."

"It's a test, a test,
For us to choose to live by their rules,
Or to choose to live by ours.
They say they want to make the world
Our own,
But o, contrare."

"Do you see it clearly now?
They care not about you,
As long as their world runs smoothly,
As long as the sickening cycle,
Consistently repeats itself."
He said loftily.

"I came to warn you to stop."
He continued, and he looked me,
Dead in the eye.
"To stop what?"
I asked, with a frown sketched on my
Confused face.

"To stop being,
A puppet on their string."
He said.
I looked at the man,
Perhaps he was mad.
His wild hair and eyes,
Clearly said that.

The old man smiled at me grimly,
And he stood.
"Stop being a puppet on a string."
He said, and walked away,
Probably off to torment another
Peaceful teenager alone with her
Thoughts.

But for some odd reason,
As I sit in my room and stare out my
Window,
As I sip on my coffee, in the middle of
A bustling cafē.
But especially as I sit in the park,
And watch people walk past me,
I think of the old man's absurd
Assumption.

What if he was right?
As I watch people being swept,
Swept away by the crowd.
As I see them being whisked away,
Into the sickening cycle of life,
Of love, of laughter, of hate, of Sorrow, and finally of death,
Everything seems too predictable for
Me.

My steps feel planned,
And my heart feels set.
Sometimes I walk, without moving,
Sometimes I smile, without feeling.

Then just as quickly as the thought
Rises in my head,
Just as quickly I disregard it.
Puppets on a string,
I scoff to myself,
And go back to what I was doing.

I go back to being,
A puppet on a string.

~n.s

(A/n: so, I actually wrote this poem when I was very bored, so yip...)