.
                        Puppet
                   Puppeteer Pu
                  Puppeteer Pup
                  Puppeteer Pupp
                    Puppeteer Pu
                    ppeteer Pupp
                     eteer Puppete
                     er Puppeteer
                     Puppeteer Pu
                      ppeteer Pupp
                      eteer Puppete
                      er Puppeteer
                      Puppeteer Pu
                      ppeteer  Pupp
                     eteer Puppeteer  
              Puppeteer     Puppeteer
          PuppeteerPup peteer Pupp
            eteerPuppet    teerPuppet
               Puppet            Puppet

The puppeteer is the fool,
delivering drugs like a mule,
unaware of his crime,
he will pay a price of time.

The puppeteer approaches his boss,
in a room with some moss.
A man with two tears tattooed on his face,
holds out the his gross overpay and hands him mace.

The Puppeteer walks with what he believes is just cheats,
not hearing the sound of foot beats.
to late to block,
he is clocked.

The puppeteer protects what is his,
the boy beats him without a single miss,
out comes his hero in a baseball cap,
threatening the boy he tries to leave the map.

The puppeteers pride is damaged,
and takes the bat hitting his atter leaving him in bandages.
paying off the right people the man with tear tattoo's
make all the charges become taboo.

The puppeteer reads the news,
the boy he attacked might be set a new,
sitting by the rail on valentines day,
his friend approaches with a blush like a bae.

The puppeteer hears the boy say love,
he pushes his into the wall not wanting to be his dove,
though secretly he feels different,
and his hero can tell and kisses him not ashamed he is indifferent.

The puppeteer panics he is set a miss
for he never expected to receive a kiss,
he shoves him off and yells queer,
his heart is set with fear.

The puppeteer sees him sit down next to him,
his girlfriend near he won't mention it  Kim,
looking for justice an older brother show up,
though he is ignored as his opponent sips from a cup.

The puppeteer hears a shot be fired,
he realises he is deaths desire,
when all went black,
his eyes open to see the gunman be pushed a back.

The puppeteer smiles for he has won,
till his hand touched someone,
looking to the side their lies the hero,
and the puppeteers sanity hits zero.

Complete our dream that is his last call,
before the hero's eyes will fall.
an unmarked grave is mentioned through my rhyme,
nothing can heal the heart not even time.

One goal is set in mind,
and he will accomplish it in do time,
to become an artist of the written word,
only then can the puppeteer become a bird.

The puppeteer lives no more,
for now he closes the past's door.

This world was gripped by a puppeteer. He saw us all but deemed me our William Shakespeare. I was the poet, the world had to blow it. I was the artist, they weren't the smartest. I was the dreamer, they weren't believers, and I was the inventor, now they're no longer in the center.

The world was gripped by a puppeteer, but he looked at me and deemed me his sightseer. I was the psychic, the rest of the world had gone a little seismic. I was the vision, they couldn't come to a decision. I was the future, they needed some sutures and I was the wise one, but oh this world's a loaded gun.

The world was gripped by a puppeteer. He was their commandeer. He ordered the world to drown in flames, but they thought he was just playing games. Then he pulled his invisible strings, and from his chessboard began pulling corrupted kings.

Gold and silver rained upon the world, and blood and bones piled in the underworld. The little children just up and curled, and the madness hidden in the world began to just unfurl.

Gray skies couldn't hide the lies, broken kingdoms fell to the flies. The puppeteer had gripped the world, and oh how their sanity just twirled, oh, welcome to the new world. The world was gripped by a puppeteer, now all the baddies have to disappear.

Save us all, oh save us all. That's exactly what you'll do, my dear little puppeteer. 'Cuz as long as I'm pulling the strings, you'll always be doomed to stay here.

Save us all, oh save us all. That's exactly what I'll do, my dear little puppet. Oh it's gonna be you, you'll save us from the corrupted, but it's really me.

It'll be me, I'll be the one to save us all. I'm the real key, you're all under my thrall. 'Cuz as long I'm here, I'm pulling the strings. My little puppeteer, oh it's me, I'm the king of kings.

The world is in a dead awkward silence
everyone looked at the aggressive brutality and cruel violence
They wondered to themselves how did they get here
without even realising there were people pulling their strings like a masquerade puppeteer

Can you imagine a world without anything but just broken gravel?
Living in fear of just catching nothing but just the common cold rattle
Growing up to learn the destroyed world and be nothing but just to grow old..
Change the time of you which you live in now
technology just complicates our lives and our true knowledge

Before everything just becomes nothing but bitterness and displease
will it then maybe shock you? And come ten times worst as respiratory disease

A cumulonimbus caused the gloom that day. It went shedding drops of rain that looked like bead of pearls glittering in the grey autumn sky, vanishing as they plunge on leafless laurel trees and solitary cypresses. He watched them dance to pitter-patter on every umbrella that opened towards the heavens, their colors of rich black calling out to such empathy. Finally, the drops kiss the graze of withered grasses and thirsty dandelions, reviving their foliage and greenness. Slowly, the rainfall collect to become one with soil and mud crawled down to the six feet depression where a coffin was laid. It was white like ivory and carved with elaborate insignias as a token of love and undying memories. Soon, it was all covered with crimson roses that carry the last parting words of the bereaved. The priest waved out his hands above with mournful eyes, lisping his beseeching of earnest favors while spades of loam filled up the burrow. He saw faces of despair around the pit, gasping for reprieve and sympathy. If only the rain could also bring back her life, he implored.

This, in his senses, was belongingness. This, in his heart, was death.

It had been two long weeks since Roxanne’s death and Vincent couldn’t get his feet back on the ground. He still couldn’t believe he had lost her and that their seemingly endless love has flown away from him for all eternity. He’d make believe that this was all just a dream and at some point of this nightmare he would finally be unchained and awakened. Days became niches of shackled memories that kept haunting his love-fletched soul and nights were nothing more than a requiem of lovelorn longings that still linger in his mind. He remembers it all, the feel of her name on his lips, the smell of her hair, and the sound of her laugh. Everything is still as fresh as the dewdrops of June and as vivid as the most cinematic imagery a mortal could immortalize. The ultimate fight of this melodramatic transition was to remain whole when all the strength Vincent has built up begins to crumble by a mere reminiscence of the tragedy that gets freeze-framed from beginning to end over and over again.

It was a rainy Friday evening on the 22nd of May and everyone’s feeling the smell of the weekend rush. Vincent was already at a friend's house party and called Roxanne that he’ll be waiting. Roxanne was driving the Lexus behind a small truck that seemed to plod toward the upcoming red light. She was a few minutes late on her way and watching these two people ahead of her jabber away in that truck was getting her out of her ecstatic  mood. The light turned green, but the truck too slowly moved forward. Roxanne became frustrated as the driver fixated to the right. He visibly gasped at what was just about to come into her view. A brand new grey-blue Chevy Silverado blazed through the opposing stop light to broadside his little truck. Roxanne tried to stop, but her car slid into the Chevy's rear side and went tossing down the highway to an explosion.

All these is what Vincent needs to drown himself to agony. It’s as if Atlas gave up the bearing of the world for him to endure. Wretched and perplexed was he, blaming the world for such a prejudiced conspiracy. How could an angel like Roxanne be bound to such an end? How could an invincible love become vulnerable on the visage of death? But then again, his heart starts to concoct a spell of phantasm, bringing back the most prized memories of him and her together, infiltrating his whole system and gaining power over the bitterness and pain. In this test of sensations, he himself wasn’t sure if this two-edged delusion is a boon or bane. But one thing was becoming clear to him-he cannot be like this for the rest of his life. If this nightmare must be proven real, he must find a way out. Whatever may lie ahead, he must keep going, recreate his own world and be able to break free from the fetters of this mishap that surely promises him nothing but living scars, frustrations and sorrow.

Two years have passed and the town of New Hope has undergone a lot of changes. New coffee shops and cafes run down a block away from the University premise as well as convenient stores and parlors. New establishments stood welcoming and billboards mushroomed the skyway. The streets are crowded with more and more busy people, indicative of a metropolitan evolution of lifestyle. Summer has ended and without a trace, the arid autumn and the frigid winter fluttered to oblivion.

The same is true for New Hope University which, in its current enrollment period, has its student population increased by two thousand. The institute’s remarkable performance rating in board examinations and national competitions attracted other towns to invest their education to the latter. It was nearly the start of class and everyone is busy catching up the enrollment pace. But not Vincent, who, in the first day of inception has already completed the enrollment process. He was ecstatic, more of curious how his life as a senior student could turn into this academic year. He met faces of different kinds-some familiar and some entirely strangers. Those he doesn’t recognize would just pause and pay a smile while others he knew jsut pass by and make him feel invisible. On a ledge in front of his course department’s office he sat. He in himself was New Hope town in human transfiguration- braver, brighter and better. He looked from afar, with eyes playing on the nimble of heads and shoulders of people passing through the corridor. He drenched himself to an illusion of how each head turns toward him with a infectious smile, that once in a while, happiness is sought even in the gallows of solitude. Solitude-it wasn’t a strange name to him anymore. It never was. He was entangled with it on that day the sickles of death took his love away. Somehow, through the passage of time, the wound that was scourged deep in his heart has mended and the thought of being alone became amusing that he has managed to laugh about it over the seasons. He is more human now, away from the devious portal of his mundane imagining.

The daydream was shattered when out of the blue a silhouette of a familiar figure took the stage. She was elegantly tall, with hair of pure ebony lolling on her shoulders. Each step enraptures, and each gentle sway of a hand is a compelling rhythm. She draws closer to where he was and he's left slack jawed. She entered the office and he was back to his senses. Maybe not. What he beheld was something farfetched, something that he cannot comprehend. Vincent saw it all coming back to him. A remnant of his long buried love has come to life. It was Roxanne and it is more certain than breathing. He couldn’t explain what he felt. It was a maelstrom of joy and surprise, of hope and fear. It was the face he yearned to see, so long that the yearning turned to hate and despair. But now that it came to pass, his humanity fell apart. Although he is a mere victim of his own circumstances, the serendipity took a shot straight to his heart and there is nothing he could do about it.

Perhaps there is, and he is now pretty preoccupied. He wanted to know her. He must unknot this puzzle that has challenged his whole conviction. He must find every answer and throw all of its questions behind. Whatever there is that the road has in store for him is not essential anymore. He couldn’t care less to fathom this enigma and once more, find something worth living. But now that he is hanging in midair, he planned to fall back. He jumped out of the ledge and headed out the campus, afraid that she might be at sight and all the strength in him shall subside. He was up all night, thinking of how he could get a chance to meet and talk to her. He had thoughts of crafting schemes, devising methods and inventing tricks.

And nothing of it worked.

The first day of class commenced. New Hope University is buzzing with ecstatic students. Vincent giggled with utmost excitement, carelessly bumping shoulders and brushing elbows with other students in the corridors.  He molested his tattered COR and skimmed for his first class. It is in room 101 scheduled 9:00. He reviewed through the digital clock and he hurried as it ticked to 8:58. Luckily, he is safe from prime tardiness, though he seemed to be the last comer. He seated at the back, knowing that after thirty minutes, he’d helplessly succumb to napping since it is his favorite subject-English 8, Technical Writing.

And so she happened.

It was her, Roxanne’s doppelganger who broke the charts. She was 15 minutes late and unforgivably beautiful with her sequined tee and skinny jeans. She realized what she has gotten into and apologized with the kindest gesture. The professor gave her a hand and led her to the seat beside Vincent. She felt awkward. He was worse. They both sat like lifeless puppets with the puppeteer gone until she broke the silence.

“I’m Katherine,” she muttered. “Katherine Evans, glad to be your block mate”. She took it off with a smile that sent Vincent to hyperventilation. He couldn’t shake her hands. They’re already shaking with butterflies. The poor guy mounted his strength. He could not afford to lose the chance. “Vincent, Vincent Smith”. That was all and a nod. It was rare for Vincent to survive the thirty-minute nap attack but he did this time, although the victory seemed unnoticed. They enjoyed the remaining hour sharing thoughts and ideas with Vincent succeeding in all his attempts to stint his best jokes. He has come to know who she is at the basics-a transferee from Dakota University, a cheerleader and an adventurist. He also looks forward to know more about her in the days to come- hoping that she likes cheese, watching live wrestling fights and attending Sunday mass.

Perhaps she doesn't.

Two weeks was enough a time for the two of them to get closer to each other. They were both open to let the affinity they share to grow and blossom. It was very apparent that the two knew where their relationship is going and they both seemed ready for it.

Months have passed and the two were no more than couples. But Vincent was too overwhelmed of what he had let enter his life. Katherine is no Roxanne. She doesn’t like cheese, wrestling or Sunday masses. She was more self-driven, conceited and unwelcoming. Sooner he realized that he isn’t in love with Katherine, nor will he ever be. He just created his Utopia by painting Roxanne’s memories on Katherine’s facade. He believed to have loved again and he believed in vain.

It was a candlelight dinner at Katherine's and it was all set. She suggested it herself. She would always do this, steering their affair on a one man tag and turning the tides whichever she likes it to be. She seemed obsessed about Vincent, about their friendship, about their bond. This was her biggest mistake: to let Vincent get drowned in her self-consumed devotion.

Vincent is on his way. To break her heart.

When he came, Katherine pranced in glee. She presented the menu. And the drinks too. She was on the midst of telling Vincent her summer getaway plans when he told her to stop and listen. He undid it to her gently by taking all the blames, that it was his butter fingered actions which led them both bruised and bleeding. It was a self-defeating battle preordained by the gods. A tear fell down from Katherine’s eyes, and she didn’t want to show him more. She fled her way out the dining room with a tormented soul, like Aphrodite torn by Adonis, and hurried to her room with the banging of the door. Vincent was left with only the deafening silence, keeping his severed heart together.

As he sat out there slowly losing substance, he began to notice a set of picture frames that showed two happy faces, one of them Vincent was able to recognize in just a matter of seconds. But what puzzled him most is the picture's relevance to Katherine. He thought of a reason to make his way out the riddle. He looked closer to the girl beside Roxanne and found a spot of mole that was identical to Katherine's.

Vincent stumbled to a discovery he wished he had never known.

On the night Roxanne met death, she was not alone. She was with company. The girl that happened to live is Vicky Duran, Roxanne’s best friend. She was secretly in love with Vincent. And she was prepared to change her entire life for a streak of a chance that she’ll have what she was living for.

And she almost succeeded.

Vincent, still staggered on how things turned out insane, went to Roxanne’s grave. He shattered from an implosion of mixed emotions and he cried out like a child who lost his treasured toy. He curled on the ground with so much pain and bearing contained inside him. He called out Roxanne’s name with pure longing, bringing back his old self and his memories of that grey autumn, of that unwanted Friday that took her life away.

Footsteps cracked from the ground and Vincent ceased his outburst of melancholy.

“Let me end your misery,” a trembling voice came from behind him. It was Vicky, whose face is neither Roxanne’s nor Katherine’s. It was a face of a hopeless woman, wretched and determined for something. She was wearing rugged clothes and she held a gun on her hand. To Vicky, living is no different from death. She has now understood why the very person she loves has turned away from her when she gave all that she never was. But the realization priced too much of her reality that she cannot anymore take back. She decided to **** him and then take her own life.

She pointed the gun towards Vincent. He jumped at her to take the gun away. They grappled on the ground, the weapon still on Vicky’s hands. Vincent managed to overpower her but she kicked him, tumbling back to the gravestone. A shot was heard from afar with a man’s cry.

It rained that day. Brown withered leaves of tall laurels hovered with the wind while branches of solitary Cypresses dance to every whirl. The breeze whispered to the clouds of grey, a mark of autumn’s return. Vincent crawled to Roxanne's grave. It was a weeping of a true love that echoed away. Raindrops keep descending from the heavens, washing away the blood that kept flowing to the ground of mud.  Perhaps, on the last moments of his life he found happiness, even from a love that was never his to keep.

 

- by Larry Potter

It all began with a ‘he’
he who said I was pretty
  when my face turns sideways and
  the right amount of sunlight casts shadows
  on the planes of my cheeks
he who kissed me in 6th grade
  in front of my best friend – whom he used to date,
  his lips were cool and moist
  moist – it didn’t feel anything.
he who requested love songs during our high school intramurals
  when all of my friends and all of his friends
  cheer us up like we were the sweetest thing they’ve seen.
he who danced with me the whole night of our junior prom,
  my shoes dangling behind him, my arms and his arms were sweating
  he whispers now, “You look beautiful.”
he who gave me wilting flowers on the 15th of February
  because I skipped school – too scared to face the truth
  that no one would do what he just did. He proved me wrong.
he who said “I love you” too late.
he who said “I love you” too early.
He who made me believe that fate, destiny, sparks, forever, and all that *******
  were real, written in His holy book. Should I still believe in you?
he who said would wait – the next month telling me he realized
  it wasn’t me he was waiting for.
he who told me to stay.
he who left. he who never went back.
and oh – he
he who was never here in the first place.

it all began with a “she”
she who danced in front of the class
  with all her sass, snaps, and we laugh.
she whose hair used to be straight
  swaying down her waist, flows smoothly when she walks,
  falls perfectly down her collarbones. Let’s not start with collarbones.
she whose eyelids flutter like butterfly wings
  making the ones inside my stomach dance like hummingbird’s wings
  her eyelashes are thick, outlining her brown eyes – her perfect brown eyes.
she who throws he head back when she laughs
  not knowing I drift and crash back to the sea
  like a wave thrown back by her chuckles and laughter
she who reads and reads tons of books
  when she could write about her day
  and that’ll still be the greatest stories I could read
she who held me close when she stumbles towards the bus station
  when she’s drunk
she who wanted nothing between us – worried it will not work.
but she made the raindrops of yesterday meaningful
  so it could wash off all the hurt from everything, from everyone.
she who changed me. – no.
she who made me face the mirrors I’ve been running away from
  all those lies I’ve been hiding alone
  all those pain, all those bad memories
she washed them all away, like a hurricane
   she dragged my whole town with her
she who made me forget.
she who makes me ache at times but it’s the kind of ache
  you’d gladly take – a suffering worth all the suffering
she who outshined all of – in the best possible way I could imagine
she who made the stars insignificant.

It doesn’t end with a ‘he’
It doesn’t end with a ‘she’
it all ends up with a simple ‘who’
that person who will always come through
for you

I learned that love sometimes doesn’t last that long
sometimes it doesn’t even start at all.
But I know one thing, you cannot fight it.
I don’t know where – maybe in his hands
or in her eyes. It will make you move like you
have no choice at all – like a puppet stuck
******* and down nylon strings
by the puppeteer
dictating your life
like you have no choice, at all.

Puppet, puppet,
dance to my whim.
Squirm under string,
and bend to my will.

Puppet, puppet,
hear my call.
Listen only to my word,
and never anything more.

Puppet, puppet,
ever breaking.
Your strings will snap,
and you will fall.

Puppet, puppet,
where have you gone?
Who am I
without my marionette?

Puppeteer, puppeteer,
where did you
get your strings?
who do you dance for?

my heart tears, it is ripped out of me, as if it was nothing
your wicked mind, your impish smile, your evil eyes
i am the puppet, and you are the puppeteer to your sick games
your words swirl around my head, intoxicating me
until i am my own no more, i am yours to control
every time you let go i run with fear, and disgust
i tell myself i will never return to this life
yet i always come back, i have no idea what to do with out you
you are my puppeteer, and i am your puppet
i let you play your sick games with me
your lies enchant me, making me helpless to your wrath
making me beg for you every time we touch
you are my drug, i am addicted to you
your kiss gets me high, your touch makes me fly
yet when your gone i get thrown back into reality
i sit here yearning for you, pining for you to return to me
i have no idea what to do without you
for i am your puppet, and  you are my puppeteer

when the puppet
finally
breaks free
of his strings
you'd better be
careful
that he
does not
choke you
with them

I remember that day like it was yesterday.
What happened, you claim, was barely horseplay.
Will you ever comprehend,
That what you did, I didn’t “misunderstand”?

Perhaps you’d like to blame it on your upbringing,
Because your dad taught you to control a woman who doesn’t have the “right” thinking.
Mexican patriarchy is ******, but it is you who chose to comply with it.
So don’t claim you aren’t responsible for the sins you commit.

Today I speak,
For I refuse to be weak.
Today I’ll unfold the truth I never wanted to accept,
When I was just a little under 15 and felt completely wrecked.

I stand today to expose you **** as I’ve been,
A monster in full shape and form, guilty of ****** while you grin.
You’ve kept your eyes shut to my dreadful sensations,
But today you will listen to my crude allegations.

We were in your house in Mexico where you locked me in the basement.
You claimed you wanted privacy, but only offered me enslavement.
Maybe it really was my bad luck,
When I believed you when said you loved me, but didn’t realize you only wanted to ****.

A monster, you pinned me against the wall,
I hit my head and cried, beginning to feel like your personal doll.
Touching my head where I discovered that I bled,
I reached for your hand, but you only grabbed mine to throw me onto bed.

When I was five, mother told me monsters don’t exist,
But today I am a witness to the contrary, as I know angels and devils coexist.
You are a monster for what you did to me,
For you pretended not to hear my plea.

A monster, you tied me onto your bed,
And ripped my clothes until I was left with nothing but a thread.
I begged you to stop and pushed you away,
But you slapped me and pressing your body against mine, told me you were here to stay.

A monster, your tongue against my breast,
And I completely undressed,
I watched your face transform,
Like a caterpillar taking its new form.

You, a monster, a demon, and a coward,
Faced a broken soul who had not yet flowered.
You took your hands and forced my flower to bloom,
Though it did not unfold with pleasure, but with fear of ending in a tomb.

And like a painter facing an empty canvas,
You traced me from head to toe as I lay nearly dead on the mattress.
You carved your name onto my body and robbed me of my innocence.
A monster, you obliterated my purity, leaving bruises as evidence.

A monster, you watered my flowers with the filthiest juice,
Not with God’s purest waters, but your own waters of abuse.
I weeped and screamed and in that moment begged for a God to exist,
I even prayed, but found no angels to untie my wrists.

If you really loved me, then you would look past your lust,
But you never did and chose to break me with each and every ******.
Rocking back and forth I was controlled by you, a monstrous puppeteer,
Your *** danced down my legs as I watched you cold and with fear.

A monster, you carefully tamed me to satisfy your *** drive,
Never did I imagine I would go to Hell and come back alive.
Today I stand a witness of your repulsive proclivity,
Penetrated by a monster who awaited for the trophee he believed was my virginity.

It wasn’t just a simple “quickie”,
The way you threw me around and used me.
I may have stood still and allowed you to profanate me,  
But I always threw up once you finished touching me.

People say our dreams are reflections of our memories fused with fantasies,
But there is no magic in the nightmares I regard as tragedies.
I’ve spent four years feeling entitled to nothing but pain,
And stay awake fearing my memories will haunt me, crashing into me like a train.

I wash my body once, twice, and thrice to flush away the picture of your fingers,
Scrubbing and scrubbing to ensure I numb my skin from your smell that lingers.
Your colossal hands a million times larger than the girl they groped,
Remind her of the million times she was choked.

I only wish you could understand what it feels like to be someone’s puppet,
A doll you can pull, stretch, bend over backwards and play like a trumpet.
It’s difficult to accept I’ll always feel possessed,
That the monster who injected me with his poison jerks off to the thought of being caressed.

You are the reason I’ve sought the sharpest blade,
To slash my skin and mark your cannonade.
But I can’t slice you out of my body,
As slicing my skin with glass won’t provide me with an antibody.

A monster, you conquered my body with a single purpose,
You kept me in the darkness to guarantee your coitus.
I’m sorry my ******* wasn’t as **** as your *******,
I blowed as fast as I could to prevent a flatline on my Electrocardiography.

I’m sorry I had to fake an ******,
But I had to escape you once you threw me into a chasm.
Navigating in the maze where I was constantly abused,
Was difficult having no compass to pretend I was being seduced.

I spent years looking for an exit out of your maze,
Taking too long to realize this wasn’t only a phase.
Some blame me for being too oblivious,
For wearing a blindfold and perceiving you as chivalrous.

And perhaps you blame me for being too naive,
Because I wished for you to change on New Year’s Eve.
I sought a fairytale, forgetting Cinderella did not meet her prince,
But a wolf who impaled her with his claws and abandoned her since.

I was your slave for two long years,
And you, a monster, showed me each and every one of my fears.
But I have lived in spite of my trauma,
And today I stand to scold you for this drama.

I no longer fear the monster inside my head,
For I understand many others will dwell ahead.
But my monster will no longer haunt me in my sleep,
For now I sleep knowing I have my body to keep.

I am strong, proud and bold,
And I have found my place in this world.
No longer will I let you win,
For it is you who reeks of sin.

Does it make me sick to empathize with your situation?
To feel for your pain and share your deeply held frustration?
Is it you who is wicked for being a pervert?
Or me for wanting you to hurt?

How can I wish you the greatest agony,
When I would never want anyone, not even my monster to experience my tragedy?
I am being torn in different directions,
But I’m no longer tied down to successful erections.

Monster, I thank you for your rotten kisses,
For the hundred bruises and tight stitches.
I now know my body is a shrine,
And that I am my own lifeline.

No longer will I feel soiled by your hands.
For I have built new dams.  
I now look at my own reflection,  
And see a figure composed of fascinating lines shielding me from your infection.

I am on my way to finding my peace,
But need to put my thoughts together to find my release.
It may be forgiveness, prevention or punishment,
But no longer will I undermine my own torment.

It may sound funny when I say I wish I was a superhero,
So I would know when a girl is in danger of touch and close to Ground Zero.
I’ve lived my years carrying the guilt of watching women fall one by one,
Of never being able to prevent another unwanted son.

I now understand there is only so much I can do,
For I am an ordinary person with a big heart turned blue.
I only wish my words will inspire, the victims of this fire,
To embrace their burns and wear them as an iron attire.

My growth and strength came as a result of patience,
It took years and tears to show me a way out of complacence.
But in an effort to give you a lift,
I have found myself adrift.

I have tried to be a saviour,
Forgetting to save myself before and bring myself to shore.
Today is the day I become my own light,
And fight to stay bright in the night.

Monster, you may now live in paradise,
Walking around as the devil in disguise.
But I believe in divine retribution,
And live in peace knowing you will get your fatal conclusion.

You are a monster, and I was your prey,
But today, I am no longer in decay.
With these words I purge myself of your touch,
For I’ve released my demons back into Hell and no longer seek a crutch.

the first time i looked into your eyes,
i knew i was hooked.
you were a drug
i was the
addict.
you wanted,
i needed.
you said,
i did.
i was a puppet &
you were my
puppeteer.

you hold me on wires by my spine like i'm a puppet and you're the puppeteer,
the wires dancing out of orbit as similar as power lines wrestling a storm or
electrons that are never at a certain point at any time. your misaccuracy
reminds me of a pinpoint on a map because it never touches the destination
on point, and i absorb the attention you provide like polymer gel ***** with
water, but you are the most unstable puppeteer i've ever known, smiling
through smoke and blindfolding me covering me in black and blue camoflauge
throwing me in the fire, drowning me in the deep depths of the ocean,
and laughing as i sink in denial and crave the inevitable let down

- kra

Gently, softly, strong, powerful
giving life to the immovable.
As a puppet with an invisible puppeteer
moving graceful arms, suspended in air.
Running through its leafy green fingers
shaking its sleepy limbs, bending, twisting.
Rippling like a pianists hands over dormant keys
gone as quickly as it appeared.


JCM 2011 ©

you say I'm mister right
but I'm mister one night
then I really got to go
you say I'm a lover
but baby I'm a fighter
and I don't want my wounds to show
well I can't be who you want me to be
and it's driving me out of control
but I can't can't break free
beacause I'm a slave to thee
so I'm traveling the underground railroad

well I'm not your little puppet
and your not my puppeteer
I'm not some realization of your imagination
this has got to end right here...

you say I'm prince charming
and my looks are disarming
and you wouldn't change a thing
you said you'd love me
unconditionally
but there's conditions on everything
well I can't stand your double standards
your passive aggression,
how you sweetly slander
my good name... drives me insane
you had my heart but it was all in vain

well I'm not your little puppet
and your not my puppeteer
I'm not some realization of your imagination
this has got to end right here...

My eyes were trapped in the dark
blindfolded, hold the cigar
the Viet-Com may have won the war
but my surroundings smelled like a grass heaven
in the background 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” playing
and then she sat on my lap
feeling anxious while my hands were tied
let’s just pause and go back in time...

(10 Minutes Ago)

She pulls on my heart strings
like a puppeteer from above
the pendulum of my feeling swings
with every step she takes towards my door
the anticipation knows no precipitation,
the monsoon of her kiss
the outback of her reach
the caribbean sea of my ship,
lost in her isles, her eyes, her love,
then I hear a knock on the door.

She knocks ...1...2...3...4
opened up, I said hi, she launched her lips against mine
in an euphoric stupor, I tasted her breath
while she ropes her arms around my neck
let’s call it “The Aussie Missile Crisis”
she pushed me down on a folding chair
as the right index on her lips shushed me
went into the bedroom with her “bag of goodies”.

Came back out wearing a school-girl outfit
looking more “**** Bill” than “Hit Me Baby One More Time”
giddy as I watched her taking off the tie
impatient buttons divorcing their holes one by one
while she twirled, she danced, she teased
sealing with a kiss, tying to the chair my wrists
her breast against my mouth, I was a cub nearly starved
looks like Mrs. McDonald brought the farm.


...and that’s when her bra came off
to find their way around my pupils
my trouser friend could no longer be contained
with impatient hands, there was no time to sulk
I was more anxious to smash than the Incredible Hulk
suppressing my angst, my zipper, her leather
finding myself inside her beautiful lips
touching the roof her moist heaven.

My hands still tied, while she help my thights
real hard, real soft, real smooth
like her silky tongue, wet like May flowers
climbing up and down the stairs of the Eiffel Tower
she was a cosmic reaction, I was Yellowstone
let me come so you can climb on top
of Mount Everest, from there we could see the Earth
the land, the ocean, the skies, let’s fly together.

...and we did, lifted off from the chair
to soak the water from the clouds
to come back crashing on the couch
and my hands finally free to explore
her breast
her cheeks
the smoothness of her waist
her ****
the erosion I couldn’t contain
her legs over her face
touching
caressing
kissing
biting
trusting
in short
*******
until we both came
back from wherever we went
to just lay there, gasping for air
touching our faces, both smiling
like satisfied school children that schemed
red cheeks, blue *****, smoked the green
I was Joe D, she was my Marilyn
thus ending
“The Aussie Missile Crisis”.

A puppeteer, you may call it,
the master of manipulation.
All his fingers hold the knots,
to the cracks in your foundation.

Hidden by your tall, lean shadow,
he lurks behind your back;
forward, with every move you make,
warlock takes his attack.

Each digit fidgets suddenly,
and your body seems to twitch;
the hands of time stop ticking now,
trapped in by the witch.

The only sound that you can hear,
is the crying of the dead;
a mournful, sad melody,
that plays often in your head.

You think, "maybe, i'll get a break",
he's tricked you into believing,
the more you do for him,
the less that you'll be breathing.

He takes you in and ***** you up,
and you would never know,
the strings in which he has you tied,
lets him be in control.

You don't seem to think with Reason;
root Chakra so loud and gratifying.

So very much louder,
and as if that makes it right,
and as if it makes up for
all that lack of self control:

You don't seem to think with Reason,
your root Chakra is your puppeteer.

Playing with Fire,
One gets ******* burnt.
What did you expect? Then again,
you don't seem to think with Reason.

Unbalanced Root Chakra;
so very loud and gratifying,
leaves you cracked and empty;
hollow. Wallowing. I know
this is hard to swallow,
but, do you follow?

You bring it on yourself!
You called it down, summoned it!

You played with Root Chakra Fire
and we're all still getting burnt.
You might have saved yourself,
but I am still enduring it;

Each time I think of Love,
Pain instead comes to Mind
because that is how those I have Loved have treated me.

"You're such a good person", they've said.
Hah! That's either ******* or just insincere,
'cause they've sure as **** shown me
what it is they thought I deserved:

Reap the words of one you've broken down.
Behold the Wrath you've ******* sewn about!
Dark Actions propagate dark Feelings;
Face the repercussions of your Actions:

This is a Reflection of you!
This is a Reflection of what you have done!
This is no appeal to Guilt;
for what good would that do?
--
I guess we must think differently, and that's fine.
I guess I am just so offended
'cause I hold *** with reverence;
To me, *** ******* means something,
and I thought of *** as an extension and expression of our Love and
not just another ******* Addiction.

Turns out it was just another ******* Addiction
and you got your ******* fix,
but where's mine?

You've become just another ******* Addiction
that I am now forced to quit
cold-turkey.

Just another addiction.
(I was) Just another addiction.
(You are) Just another addiction.
Just another ******* Addiction after all.

If we are puppets,
Then sleepiness
Is a dangerous
Puppeteer.

He creeps up on you
And hijacks your
Mind and body

Your eyes are closing
Your body feels heavy
Your head may drop off
Anytime

Your shoulders are drooping
Your feet are weary
Your back supports you
No more

Your head is swaying
Your body is aching
Oh how you wish you were
In bed

You can’t hear properly
You can’t speak properly
You don’t care
Anymore...
                                                                ­                 ...he whispers in your ear
And this is when
Sleepiness
Slips you onto
His puppet strings
And starts to sway
Your bearings

One, two
One, two
You plod on

Left, right
Left, right
Your vision starts to spin

You can’t hear properly
You can’t speak properly
You don’t care
Anymore...
                                                                ­                 ...he whispers in your ear
Continuing on
Your way
You know what you’re doing
But yet, don’t notice
Anything
Around you

Until that loud beep
Jolts you from your sleep
And brings you out of
The puppeteer's spell

The puppet strings
Are broken
And you are left
To face reality
The fact that you could've                                        should've
Died


You can’t hear properly
You can’t speak properly
You don’t care
Anymore...
                                                                ­                 ...he whispers in your ear