Puppet
February 18, 2002
Sometimes.... Life gets out of control. We get out of control. Too many obligations, too many people trying to claim time that you really need to be on your own, just.... Too much. It's so easy for things to just become overwhelming. So we end up like this. Or at least, I do.
There's a strange face in the glass.
A plain girl, worn and soul tired.
In her glasses I see strings
Like giant capillaries
Passing through the eyes of her soul.
They tug and jerk,
Trying to manipulate this slack puppet,
But each dictates a different dance.
In my mind I hear her scream- pain or defiance?-
As she tries to make her own path,
Each step a twirl from a different jig.
This gyroscope has worn down,
Making a clumsy wobble of the once smooth pirouette.
She sways and bounces to the pull of the strings,
Trying to make her own dance formed of elements
From a hundred different tunes and styles.
I watch my mental path in the mirror,
And frustration makes me wish for the ability to weep
As I search for myself.
And still Life denies me identity.
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