Prick

Prick, the puppet,

reaches over his head and with a

stroke, slashes

himself loose of his

creators strings in

hopes of becoming,

individual. He falls

and rises and falls again. He walks

awkwardly and behaves, thinks and

communicates awkwardly.

Temperamental and unpredictably

gentle. What is obvious to others is

complex and splendid to him and

what is accepted by others is

questioned by him. Prick, the

imagination.

makebelieve

when you were young, was there a time called one day?

you would know all there was to know.

if you survive, all of those girls around you.

you'd carry their books, they carried your mind...

makebelieve, that nothing is wrong.

makebelieve, you're going somewhere.

live your dream...

so take it slow, and if you lose your way,

remember the moment you began.

fall back on your word. heaven forbid your entry...

a minor guilt complex dissolves...

nothing...

makebelieve, that nothing is wrong... nothing...

makebelieve, you've got something to say... nothing...

love your dream.

never stop.

and nothing can matter to this man.

wish away all I know... heaven is calling out.

the easiest access to the crowd...

nothing...

makebelieve... nothing...

I came for the house and the children.

I let it all slip through my hands.

I feel like a weight has been lifted.

nothing can matter to this man.

I came for the car and the vacuum.

spinning the wheels into the void.

I see now my ship it has come in.

but it was a joke; there's nothing aboard...

I came for the love and the action.

there I go slipping off of the sword.

I feel like a chain reaction.

is it me, or is it the world?