Silk strings wrapped around your finger tips,
their soft comfort an illusion;
Watching you lost in space,
the gift of freedom temporarily in your place;
Move how you will, speak how you think.
One wrong move and the bounds become tight,
ripping through the flesh that was once free;
The will to move, the want to fight,
gone from you along with the light.
You are the puppeteer, or so you think.
Jerk me backwards, make me cry,
crazy, you call me when I cry;
Yank the strings, back again,
Manipulative, I call you when I cry;
The guilt consumes you, I know it does.
My tears control you, I know they do.
I control you;
But you don't know I do.
YOU ARE READING
The Sickness
PoetryWe are full of rot. A slow rot that eats away at every single one of us like ants in soft, damp wood. Let the infestation thrive within. We are sick.
