Strings placed so tight

Right on the puppet’s

Arms~ the shoulders,

Wrists ready to be pulled

Entire body dragged in one

direction that only pleases

the one who’s in charge

The puppets do not get

To have any say-- oh no-

Every puppet must know

That the Master is in control

None should forget that—

Leave (all) the decision making

To the Puppet Master!

#ThePuppetMaster

March/friday\6.3.2020

She was

a hurricane force,

downgraded

to

a tropical storm of tears,

losing control

of the

guttural gate

at the

back of her throat

that had held

the monsoon

of

mess and mascara

from marking

her flawless image.

Forecasters

called it

A Freak Storm

but

she refused

to bend

as the current

of her

Category 5

compulsive behavior

picked up,

bringing

under control

the eyes

of

her perfect storm.

Believing the last egg I cracked was cracked right up the middle is my prerogative, that is if there is a middle. If you ask me, the problem with eggs is their lack of structural perfection, so affixing blame to myself for my inability to predetermine the outcome of the break is no different than an eager beachcomber viewing a line in the sand as the tide ebbs and flows, expecting a straight edge.

Some will look at an egg and see the hand of God, a miraculous offering, the spherical elongation released from a chicken's vent; as food for the hungry. All I see is tangible irregularity. And I could eat a dozen. Two dozen. Waste not want not. Cracking them one at a time, releasing the yolk and the albumen flagrantly to sizzle unabridged upon the preheated griddle, as Jose Rameriz pitches a perfect game that I don't watch, and I want more, even after I vomit.

Tomorrow, when I wake up, the same exact time I woke up today, I will drive my clean car an equal distance between the double yellow line and the shoulder waiting three seconds before I proceed after the light turns green to buy more eggs. Two dozen. Maybe more if they are on sale, opening up the carton with anticipatory willingness only to be deceived. Eyeing every one of the twelve I rebuke the notion of God. There is no perfect egg.

She was a control freak.

Just... not in the way you’d expect.

She wasn’t itching to fix a flaw in her plan.

The truth was, she was fine with the mess.

As a matter of fact, she often caused it.

What she controlled...

Manifested red black and blue.

Thin lines on his arms.

A bruise shown anew.

Impulsive, yet calculated.

He was her masterpiece.

His world to her liking.

She led the dance,

I think that’s why he forgave her...

Because deep down, he knew

She was lost

And I think so was he.

The control that we saw entrap him

Made him feel free.

"Step right up! Step right up!"

He yells four nights a week. The other two nights we usually travel. Long stretches of highway. Cornfields. So many cornfields.

"Step right up and see the greatest traveling side show still around!"

He wears a bright red suit with a shiny cape and a tall tophat. When crowds are low he pulls a flask from his pocket. When crowds are plentiful he stands on a box to shout over the din.

"Control the freak! See what she can do! The most flexible woman alive! Step right up!"

The long cables attached to my binds feed through a series of pulleys terminating in four wooden handles.

"A live marionette! Control the freak! Make her dance! Make her stretch! Make her moooooove!"

He always puts a foul twist on the last word, often winking at a potential male customer when he says it.

Money is paid. An eager-looking group of young men enter my tent. I lay on the floor, still, sprawled, crumpled and waiting to be controlled. They take the handles to my cables and pull me to a standing position. They get four minutes, unless they paid the premium rate, but I doubt these young men know to ask for the available extras.

They spin me around and around, make me jump, bow, twist, and convulse. I am their's. Their puppet. Their entertainment. Their slave. They have the cables, the power, the control.

Outside, the yelling continues. More people line up, waiting their turn to be my master.

Maybe it isn't right. Maybe it is. Maybe it's more common than you think. Maybe it's you.

Control was his burden

Wanting to grasp every single imaginable variable

Falling short was draining

And he did so, many times

So he was empty

They said toxicity

So they couldn't stand in proximity

For fear that he'd explode with control

But, he only was insecure, he didn't want to hurt

He only overthinks and cares far too much

Only.

If.

He.

Could.

Let.

Go.

Then....

~Freedom~

Wouldn't be so elusive.

One cousin of mine had come to house. She asked me to grind cardmom and put it in small amount of water and give. I asked,

“What for you are using this?”

“For sleep”

Afterwards I saw that instead of cardmom I had crushed pumpkin seeds’ inner portion material and had given to her. The seeds from which the husk had been removed had some what same colour as cardmom. I told her the same thing. Next day she told that her silly thoughts were controlled. Next day also again she took pumpkin seeds’ inner portion crushed, put in water. She told that silly thoughts are controlled. Without my knowledge I had found a medicine to her disease.

The irony of controlling a situation by being totally submissive. Controlling the reactions, and spiralling that occurs otherwise. Allowing the orange popscicle to become your favorite, as this ensures you can always get what you want; giving others what they want consequently. Controlling situations by providing the perfect setting for others, in order to control the level of chaos increasing or settling. Settling, is controlling, after all.

Lucifer, sly selfish snake,

Whose first appearance was to take,

Corrupt His glory and His credit,

Steal our choices if He'd let it,

You see he needs things be just so,

True purpose shows to overthrow,

For not Thy will, MY will be done,

Celestial kingdom overrun,

Shaping clay with loving hands,

Or force billions one molds demands,

No paths stretch out, branches, roots,

Orchards of rot put up no fruits,

What is purpose with ending known?

Why sow seeds to never be grown?

Promised freedom, no labor required,

Lavish cages, new knowledge expired,

Lucifer, Satan, Son of Perdition,

Misery reeks of your unending mission,

Enslaving souls, ensueing less druthers,

Control freak of his sisters and brothers.

Freak! Precision drives your Type A soul,

behavior pathological.

Small details haunt; there's no restraint-

perfectionism dominates

as urgently you race toward goals.

Consumed, engrossed, you're swallowed whole

when your achievements are extolled;

their praise surely intoxicates.

Freak!

BUT, rigid order takes its toll

and stress and tension stage revolt;

your brain demands you moderate,

and, thus, a new thought emanates:

true beauty lies beyond control,

Freak!