Strings

These strings I've been suspended in

twist up and grow tangled,

lay roots deep within

what I try not to see;

my avoided mirror image.

Landlord keeps checking the letterbox,

I'm kept awake by its clacking,

then he steps away,

a pile of unopened letters rest upon my plate.

Faces at the supermarket are vacant, sit empty,

feel the constraint, internal bleeding, 

aim for a straight face.

It all seems ripe for now

but I'm waiting for it to turn sour.

We sit in groups and each of us watches the clock closely,

hungry as wolves, devouring hours

before howling at the moon,

a fleeting freedom as

thinning smoke is freed from blackening lungs.

The walk home is trepidatious,

lined with danger, don't trip between steps,

each door closed, inviting lights always on inside

but none of these places are my home,

stumbling back into my shack.

Landlord steps up to the plate in the morning,

my shredder waits by the door, starved,

my pockets empty, full of holes,

hands reaching for the wallet I sold 

trying to move towards tomorrow.

My puppeteer parades me around these streets again,

and I leave a trail of thick blood behind,

a thick root-ball tangle of control just above my head,

these calloused hands cannot free me,

though I try to shake those strings untied,

a real boy by night,

usually only in my most frightening dreams.