Can’t a wooden man grow.
The limits of imagination boundless, abstract creation out of this falsification of what is his boldness.
My image drawn like a caricature. Build me up like an invention. Girl, I am your creation.
Every piece of my thought your decision and every chunk of hard work your intention.
And I can’t speak badly of my creator because a puppet can never speak against his controller.
All the things I am able to be is not who I am, because I can’t be “I am who am.”
You mold me and create me from what you want to see. I am but a canvas to your hands, build me up as you please.
Any way, you can tear me down with ease…
Pull me apart, my eyes wooden but the friction of the tears, fears, cheers , smears, are real.
Just because I exist doesn’t mean I’m able to feel? Right?
I’m just a dummy with silk strings pulled tight.
No body hears a mother fucker cry out “Let’s commit double suicide” in the middle of the night.
But would you?
Would you commit double suicide with me?