A ghostly whisper crawls to my ears.
Who goes there, who made that sound?
A sinister grin vanishes as I turn around.
Knotted ropes tug my limbs,
My back straightens and arches.
The puppet strings are tensing,
The puppet master urges.
My vision is like clouded mist,
Squinting my eyes to see much clearer.
Looking up at last, the fog clears,
I see myself the puppet master.
LOVE PAINTED WORDS
THE WHISTLE BLOWER
WHAT IS LUXURY?
THE GOOD CHILD
THE PERFECTIONIST TRAP
GROW UP
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