Just a puppet,
Not that important.
Merely a pawn to be manipulated in this game we play.
Made to dance, to sing, to act in a play.
We have no wish to perform this, yet we do anyways.
This is what it is to be a puppet.
The strings start fraying soon enough you see,
The fight draining.
For we are all merely puppets, performers if you please.
In this twisted, cursed performance.
This cruel dance we call life.
The show never ends for some.
YOU ARE READING
Book of Poems
PoetryThis is just going to be a collection of poems I've written. Don't really know if they're any good.....but I try. And I'm open to constructive criticism. Thanks for reading my poetry (if you chose to read this) -Arturia_Pendragon190 p.s most of them...
