In a world full of puppets,
Strings hang from the sky.
I see them tied to everywhere,
Even to people that passes by.
The strings go way up,
Up above the clouds.
There's nothing we could do to know,
What lies beyond their bounds.
In the other side of the long line,
The strings control us all,
Our actions, our words, our smiles, our dreams,
And even how we fall.
We act like we're so dangerously free,
But I wish we could've just known,
That we are but the little toys,
Of a Being on a throne.
I ask myself, what are we?
Does another Being control me?
But why do the strings lift as I please?
Tell me, am I really free?
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Of A Count
PoetryThis book is not suitable for audiences with zero percent sense of imagination and a mental age of two and below. I'm not really a great poet, just a guy who knows how to hold the pen and write the twenty six letters of the alphabet. But I like thin...
