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Poem from a long time ago

What a sick and twisted life we live

Never giving a second thought

To those we hurt for our own personal gain.

Like a sharp serrated knife tearing into weakend flesh.

We cringe and cry out in pain, but turn out backs

And let the wounds heal

Leaving scars for all to see

Never acknowledging their sources.



What the hell are we doing?

Walking through each day like we don't exist.

We are but puppets in some magnanimous production

Of someone else's imaginative genus.

Playing a part, a role

Of someone's life we've never lived

Or much less had the tiniest glimpse of.

Yet we keep tudging on through that which we call life

Without a single thought of whom we truly are inside

Mere puppetry



Where are we going?

Traveling through a maze of rights and wrongs

Never truly knowing

If our actions and beliefs are sinful.

We merely sit by and allow other people's thoughts and beliefs

To penetrate into our very souls.

Turning us away from that which we know is real.



What a sick and twisted life we indulge in.

Yet are we merely doing what we've been directed to do?

Puppets in some big play

Merely cloth on string...