Game Over

Game over. I wish this game would end.
I am a puppet on life’s fragile string
I an waiting for the word to snap
or
for the puppetmaster sadist to tire of pulling me along
so that he might life the scissors of finality and
cut
me
loose…
Is the ground I
dangle upon so solid now?
On the other side of the coin perhaps I will fall for
eternity once freed, or maybe that golden thread is my
consciousness, and once
b
r
o
k
e
this wooden, calloused body
will d i s i n t e g r a t e
at touch of death.

I’ve rolled an unlucky five, placed down a bad hand too many
times now.
Won’t he be angry with me?

Blink. And. You’ll. Miss. It;

His anger divulged so far as to almost me, to let go
drop

of my weakened string and to catch me as if to say:
.
.
.
.
.
“Your fate at my fingertips.”

Perceived liberty sails the boat of many,
but my
sinking boat is full of holes, the water is devouring
me as the master laughs at my misfortunes.

Perhaps
that is just a reflection of human nature itself-
the desire for a high sense of
purpose.

The master’s cruelty.
The master’s compassion.

All are make-believe to satisfy mortal hallucinations
of
meaning and reason.

You can
only play
this game
once.

But when
you’re inevitably going to lose,
you just want to
switch off the console
and
pull out the plug.

.
.
.
The plug is like my string, waiting
to
snap

or be
cut.

Inspired by Sylvia Plath, I wrote this poem at a low point. Not like you’d guess that, of course. “-.- and grarrghh. WordPress removed all my formatting. It’s not as effective without it.

I by the way apologise for lack of blogging lately, computer (as you may have guessed) has just about had it.

~ by Vicki on July 6, 2007.