Some Poetry For You To See

And a man spoke, saying, Tell us of Control.
And she said:
Control is, the very hand you use to strike fear into the eyes of the intended, the very hand you use to make peace.
And to you, she’s just a mere doll who takes her place. She forces that famous smile upon her face.
Her smile, overused, just a habit, something that means nothing at all.
Control is, the slaying of her soul, the crushing of her being, as she gives up her freedom to free will.
And that mere doll, whose eyes fill with despair, crashing to the ground into a million pieces, too far gone to go back.
She sits there in the locked room you’ve created for her, the key hung around your neck, its cool metallic touch a constant reminder of your power.
The room’s cold dark walls only seem to close in every time she tries to fight. Her attempts are useless; she can do nothing without the key.
And here, a little ballerina sits, fully aware of your intentions, though all she can do is obey.
The hands you use to control her are calloused and rough; she feels no kindness from your touch.

And a man spoke, saying, Tell us of Confusion.
And she said:
Confusion is a room full of mirrors, in every direction you turn; you just end up where you started.
Your eyes dart maniacally, searching, searching for a way out.
In all reality, confusion is just a state of mind; you are the creator of your distress.
In an attempt to free yourself, you smash the glass, though what you are left with is nothing, darkness that goes on forever.
You lunge yourself into that darkness, hoping to find your way out, but you fail miserably.
Your thoughts become scattered, making it impossible to concentrate.
You know that you’ve lost your way, but you don’t know how to save yourself.

And a man spoke, saying, Tell us of Loneliness.
And she said:
Loneliness is cold and damp, with little light to comfort you.
A dripping faucet heard in the near distance, a reminder of what you had.
Salvation is just beyond your fingertips, but you’re too convinced you’re on your own, the mind becoming a weapon against you.
Sliding yourself down the washroom wall, you cradle your head in your hands. And that dripping faucet in the near distance proceeds to get louder, until it seems to be completely unbearable.
You close your stinging bloodshot eyes, not caring if you ever open them again. Your thoughts become tainted and you start to believe the ridiculous lies you’ve created.