Life of a Fake Soul

The lights come on, the curtains open and once again, I'm the main attraction.

No one knows my pain, not even myself for I cannot conceive it.
I cannot know it, I cannot feel it, I cannot express it.

I do as I'm told, with these strings guiding my movement
And someone above, unknown to me is controlling my entirety.

Once the show begins, I start my charade.
I glide on the stage, like a dancer who's trained since the day he's begun.
Travel with grace and lighthearted steps.
Move to the tone set for me, and put on like I know how this is supposed to feel.

I don't. I never have. I never will.
These strings that bind me, don't teach me.
They control me. They keep me useful. They make me survive.

But eventually they'll become tangled and break.
They won't be able to guide me anymore, and then I'll be useless.
For they didn't bring me the emotion, they forced it.
They didn't help me on my way, they pushed and pulled until it was right.
How they wanted it to be.

They didn't show me how to be real, they kept me fake.
For fake is easy to control, and to use, and to present.
Fake is what the master wants, and it is what they have given to me.
Fake emotions, fake dreams, fake understanding, fake certainty.

The master has gotten what he wants and I'm now thrown away.
For he had a new puppet. One that is fresh and bright, and hasn't yet been broken.
Hasn't yet been discarded, hasn't yet been pushed to fit the place it has filled.


I was given one thing from all of this. Knowledge.
Knowledge that tells me, they too will be broken and useless.
And soon they will join me - in this discarded pile of fake souls.