What Would Geppetto Say?

What would Geppetto say,
About these strings on my wrists that control my whole fists,
And dictate the whole way that I sway?

What would Geppetto say,
About the stitch through my lips fixed forever to kiss,
With no words to emerge ‘til it frays?

Oh if only my papa could see me right now,
With my unbeating heart and my spiritless frown,
My unsteady stiff feet and my dangling hands,
And the way that I fail to become a real man.

How these strings tie me close and they won’t set me loose,
If I dare lift my head I’m exposed to this noose,
But I dare not show papa wherefore I can’t stand,
Lest he looks down on me and sees I am no man.

What would my puppeteer think,
If she could see how it festers where she has impressed,
Her own strings deep within my own skin?

What would my puppeteer think,
If she saw how I depend on the strings I resent,
And observed how my worth only sinks?

But regardless of varnish or coats that have dried,
One cannot stop the rot once it has caught inside.
So my legs will grow weak as this ailment spreads,
‘til my wooden heart hardens and cannot be bled.

Although having been taught I can’t walk without strings,
I can grasp her sharp edges and my dreams of wings.
So I swing at my wires and feel several snaps,
Alas floorward with haste does my body collapse.

How must the other toys laugh,
As I disabled my frame cutting cables in vain,
Having dreamed of a different path.

How must the other toys laugh,
About a toy such as I who would dare dream to fly,
By thus cutting his heartstrings in half.

I see all of the toys with their dreams on the shelf,
And I look in their eyes and I look to myself.
They have all of their lives and have somewhere to go,
While I only lay stringless with nothing to show.

Though my paint may be chipped and my skin may be scarred,
My insides, they may rot and my heart may be hard,
And I may be down here well apart from those toys,
But I know that I will not remain a mere boy.

What would Geppetto say,
If he had seen all my dreams were to burst at the seams,
And if he could see me in this way?

What would Geppetto say,
If he could see me half-dead, with my dreams left unsaid,
With ambition to wither away?

But in spite of my splinters, there’s life in this wood,
And necessity naked to live all that’s good.
All I need and I seek is a handle to stand,
And to live, all I need is a soft, kindred hand.

I still daydream of dancing atip of my toes,
To be silenced inside by somebody who knows,
And is mindful to move me the way that I must,
And will guard me against all this gathering dust.

Who can guide me and help me to act like a fool,
With the strings of my heart yet intact while they pull.
I am sure I will find my true puppeteer yet,
To make a man of this marionette.


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