The puppet master wants someone
Who strings he can pull at
Anytime, he wants you too not
Have a brain, so you can't think
No voice, so you can't speak
He only wants you to be submissive
To what he says and does
Because the puppet master still
Wants to live in the past
He wants to take things back but
Time has and is moving forward
Weather he wants it to or not
Not all is done
by divine decree
for God is not
a puppeteer
if strings were pulled
from above
there'd be no wars
but brotherly love
no sirens scream
no lawyer' skill
no hand allowed
to steal or kill
no family split
by adultery sin
no glitter of greed
no poverty
all would live
in harmony
with foods to heal
all bodily ills
and no one allowed
to overdrink
legs 'd be running
with energy
and all
at the same
speed
there'd be no tears
if God pulled strings
but neither
the puppet smile
'd be real
5th place winner-Brian Strand-1480 Premiere Contest-6/14/26
.
oooow
where be them
strings
each mine limbz
up
up
up
left
another left
back up
left
up
right
unto thuh
twist plop
slip
nut
oookayee
i meant knot
Isn't it weird?
Everyone has their own web of lies
or a web of ties
knitted so tight
You can't help choking
and swayed as people want you to move
Until you want to yell that you are not a toy
instead of the strings break,
soaked by the sealt in your keening
-Manu
Words prance down onto a napkin, a slip of paper, a receipt, a sticky note
Willful words, led by whom? I doubt it is me; I would like to rest sometimes.
Yet, writing insists on her own way – in the car, a restaurant, at a ball game.
Poetry is something that comes naturally to some of us.
Insisting on her own way, throwing herself onto a computer screen.
In my case, she has a will greater than my own. I cannot slow her down.
I cannot dissuade her or entice her to bother someone else.
It is me she is after. She wakes me up with an ending line.
Not daily, but more often than not. It is up to me to honor her wishes.
She is my task master, my instructor, my muse, my power house.
Her words form into a secret surprise, every single time.
I never know where she is going to end up. She rules me.
I write because I cannot NOT write.
Poetry is an outlet for my creativity that makes me happy.
She inspires me, treats me, and treasures me.
I am her puppet.
The invisible strings,
the powers at play,
the push and the pull
of hands unseen, voices unheard
I dance to their tune,
never in my own zone.
But to the world, it’s me they see —
not the shadow puppet I’ve become.
my hands are cracked and bleeding
I gag as bone protrudes
but the show must go on.
my hands are tightly bandaged
once i disappear behind the screen
and light illuminates my hands
I look perfect.
I steady my tremors
and put my focus
into my performance.
I wish that someone
would peer behind the screen
kiss my hands
and hydrate my skin
with tears
but instead
I watch others puppet shows
at the slightest mistake
I waste no time
I rip the paper
but there they stand
soft, unscarred hands
I’m forbidden form their theater
for ruining the show
I learned to stop letting
my insecurities show
but I always worry
that others
struggle the same
almost to a fault
but instead
I hide behind the curtain
bandaging my broken hands
i feel so stupid
i actually believed you loved me
i believed every lie
how could i know it wasn't true?
it all seemed so real
the smiles, the laughs
every time you were there for me
how much of it was fake?
i forget you're an actor
and you're really good at it too
you can easily play any role you're given
it makes sense you could pretend to love me
you have me on your strings
they're on my limbs
controlling my every move
holding on so tight
i can't break free
i'm like your puppet in a way
i do what you want me to do
i act how you want me to act
it's like i'm wearing a mask but
i'm hiding all your truths underneath it
i know you so well
better than you know
yet it's like i don't know you at all
i would've never expected this from you
i changed when i found out the lies
i've never been able to look at you the same
i question everything you say and do
but i didn't change to you
i stayed the same
pretended i didn't know
because i think you forget
i'm an actor too
I pretend to be a puppet,
A puppet who likes to play a game,
A game that is so complicated that nobody has figured it out yet,
A game so tough that it gives shivers down my spine,
I pretend to be a puppet,
A puppet who’s good at the game,
Who knows when to talk,
And never gives the wrong answer,
I pretend to be a puppet,
I have been for a long time,
But with you I stopped pretending,
And it just felt right
THE PUPPET'S DREAM*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunrise. The puppet stirs, yearning.
“Oh, to feel warmth of the morning sun,
to shed my strings, to be laid bare
to be more than mere display
to taste the rain, to kiss the breeze
to roam, to play, to be free.”
“My painted smile hides my inner plight.
My strings of silk are tethered by threads of fate.
I wonder if it’s worth the wait,
for what is life if not to feel,
to touch the world and to be real?”
“Though nothing but wood and thread,
I am a beautiful marionette,
following my master’s hand and mind.
Though strings may bind, my spirit soars,
returning to the stage evermore.”
*Note: Poem written for Writer Monk’s weekly Poesy & Poise Contest (Flash Poetry Contest) and published on site July 26, 2025. This is my original poem.
Life is short they say
So you better make the most of it
But what happens When that's not the case for everyone
Where there are some
Who are constantly changing freedom
Whilst simultaneously hiding in the shadows
Hoping to see tomorrow
So how can one live life to the fullest
When the odds are stacked against you
But when you're black this is your reality
A life controlled by anxiety
Where our life is a puppet
The strings are the shackles
The puppet master is a system
Where the audience are the racists
And their laughs translate to racism
Life is short but we have to spend it trying to survive
Constantly trying to hide
As if we were on the run from a crime
The crime at hand being black
As if our existence to them was an attack
So yes life is short, but for us It's even shorter
Where we are hunted for fun
And our main focus is survival
So I'll say it again
Yes life is short, but for us It's even shorter
A world built on secrets, masters who seek to destroy
You play with our minds like a child with a toy.
You put guns in the hands of innocents and tell them there is a war to be won.
Putting nation against nation knowing a sea of blood over the lands will run.
You abandon the old and indoctrinate the young
and when the people speak out you silence their tongue
You cause civil unrest by introducing new laws
Then laugh at your tyranny behind closed doors.
You squeeze every penny you can get out of hard working folk.
High taxes and cost of living, their aggravation you gleefully provoke.
You fill their heads with distractions, because to you its just a game.
To bring a new world order to humanity has always been your aim.
You build empires for your selves, how much money do you need ?
People all over the world are starving because of your greed.
You steel from the destitute, is the money really that good.
Will it buy you redemption, do you think that it could?
You hide your selves from us and your need to control.
All the money you have made. will it buy back your soul ?
I watched a man play with a spider
On the end of it's own web the other day
Curious
How what keeps one safe
Can be another's play toy -
Playing you like a puppet,
Moving to its masters every whim
The question is
Who is the puppet and who is the master?
I did not mean to chain myself to a desk
It’s gorgeous outside; I realize I am missing it
I take my notebook and dogs, and we sit in the sun
I am poetry’s puppet.
He was a puppet master
She was a willing marionette
We might get married he lied
She loved the idea
They were together for fifty-two years
He is the love of my life she told everyone
Never married, for he was forever single
His blank promises kept her magic hopes alive
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