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Is My Life a Toy?
Is my life a toy, tossed in the hands of fate?
Pulled apart by cruelty, yet I refuse to break.
If not vindictive, then why this cold disdain?
Am I merely dust beneath your twisted game?
You cast me aside like whispers in the wind,
Unseen, unheard, dismissed without regret.
But I exist beyond your silent rage,
A storm too fierce for you to forget.
Do I not matter in your grand vendetta,
When my hands have never spilled deceit?
Yet you sharpen knives against my back,
A war waged for sins I did not meet.
Crucify me? How convenient your illusion,
To paint me villain while you wear the throne.
But I dance through your fire with a jester’s grin,
Mocking the chains you dare to impose.
Let them fear my laughter in the dark,
Let them choke on the echoes they create.
For I am no puppet in their cruel charade,
I am the poet of my own fate.
So call me fool, call me weak, call me lost,
But watch me rise while they remain bound.
The joke is theirs to bear alone—
I hold the pen, and rewrite the sound.
Copyright ©
Michael Fulkerson
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