Conceit

I am the one, all important for sure,
The one for which the sun shines,
And the moon sifts through the night sky
I am the motivation, the person who makes it all work,
Noone else matters, and for them I don't care...
Everything, the only thing that matters, is me

You saw that game here?, they played it for me,
They played it so that I, with my own two eyes could see,
They must've known that I wanted them to play,
Oh well, once they found out, they just had to, didn't they?

The people round me, 'course they knew who I was,
Of my greatness, my power; as I bossed them around,
Barked out my orders, in a cacophony of sound...
A few days this worked, I was happy
Then the all powerful me, I got a teensy bit snappy,
Then it came, the blow, on my head; Wham!

My conscience, my great mind, it swam,
In that blissful dreamland, where I was the only one,
The most important, the keystone; this deciding role was fun...
But alas!, I was dragged out of my deja vu,
Only to awaken in a sponge padded cube...

Ah, my hands were bound, in a straightjacket thing...
I read about them once, before my craze,
To be the one, the reason for all, overcame me,
Then it struck me, a moment, I knew where I was...
And then I took a quick look around,
I was alone, no other person, was this paradise I'd found?

I was the master here, only me,
I made no attempt to struggle or go free,
I knew this was what I wanted the most,
After I was done here, of this kingdom of mine I would boast...

Puppet Shell

He moves when he's moved,
He does as you please,
It's him in his crispy puppet shell...

The strings are his life,
Bound to them forever,
He lives without freedom or will. The bell
on his cap, it jingles in sync,
With his every tiny, measured out step...

To say the steps are his, a great wrong indeed,
After all, the puppet master authors them too,
In a great, masterful orchestration,
One that makes you believe they're his own..
Sadly, sadly, it's but the truth...

You're made to believe that it is though,
And his life goes on, in the hands of another
Weird indeed, this puppet existence
Infact, he finds it rather
painful, moving to tugs and pulls of his strings,

But what can he do?, the poor little thing..
Only his mind is his own, he can think,
No strings attached, freedom indeed!
All he can think is of how it would to be freed,
From these shackles of sorts, villainous strings,
His puppet shell into motion they bring..

His is a tale of bonded misery,
Where motive and emotion have no say,
He is, and will remain, a puppet shell,
A poor, plain puppet shell, till the end of his days..

Beautiful Child

This is a tale not meant for the faint of heart,
Disturbing, alas...
But one thing is made most cert,
All souls are bound to pass...

A slit of the throat, it had been quick,
Nothing brutal. Not slaughter...
Or so he thought, as he sped through woods thick,
Quickly, for he had murdered his daughter.

Under the light of the star-filled sky ,
He was a guilty man, He fled
A father, indeed, but his eyes stayed dry,
How could they?, His daughter was dead...

His frantic mind was brimming now,
With thoughts from times before...
He used to call her "Princess", Oh how
She came calling him "Papa!" through the door

Then the time he watched her first play,
And told her she acted well
It was hard for him to believe that today,
The curtains of her life had fallen..

The weekend trip they both went on,
Camping, out in the wild...
He realised, his heart felt it.
She was gone. Gone forever. His beautiful child...

In that final frenzy of blinding wrath,
His human nature revealed,
He set his razor-blade on his little girl,
And her destiny was sealed

What had she done to deserve this end?
This punishment of death...
The razor cut she couldn't fend,
That cut her short of breath

She had spoken to a stranger once,
An act for which he had her warned
And another time, through the fence,
When she thought his mind had calmed...
The third time it happened, t'was funny,
She had started calling the stranger "Honey"

Today had been the final straw,
They were kissing on the porch,
This was what he, the Father, saw
Every single touch...

As the twilight filtered through the shades,
The dying moments of the day...
He marched to his cupboard, the one with the blades,
Anger came to the fray...

The minute she stepped back in the house,
The razor-blade made haste,
A glint of steel, blood on her blouse
The act was done, with certain distaste

A flimsy reason, yes indeed,
No reason to take a life...
But when the anger inside swells up, freed,
It's bound to cause some strife...

All in the mind of a man who drove,
So steady, through the night,
Then suddenly, he pulled up, by a grove
Alone, the moon shone bright...

Everything seemed so painfully still,
Perception changed; the sorrow...
The rage that drove him to make the kill,
Would it see a tomorrow?

The tears started falling now,
They were rolling down his cheek
His wetted eyes, and through the dark
He saw the ravine, and the creek...

He knew that he could live no more.
A murderer at heart,
Child-killer, Demon parent, what not
He wanted this guilt to stop...

He took his steps to the edge,
Each one filled with remorse...
He looked around, and that was it,
He jumped, with nothing to break his fall,
A single scream. A single thud. Then not one sound

Nothing at all...