wood and strings these things that bring
the ties that bind me makes me sing
every movement followed by command
welcome to my puppet show.

i know of a circle, small and confining
where i am left to stand and fight the pulling -
constant, is this random roaming
and the strings that move me only heighten
my unquenchable hatred.

burning, stretching, these lines they prevent me
from experiencing free will or freedom
to bowing, praising, and silence
this insanity, of the river that floods
do i really exist?

what wishing star inversed me
to be this whimsical puppet
that gains no approval from accomplishments
just a pleasing sense of empowerment.

what is real is unbelievable
what is false is unattainable
but always will the fingers shape
to make the perfect model.

hand me scissors,i will do it myself
there is not much time...
i drown in sweat and tears
for the cords are made of metal.