The Puppet Maker

I am a woman Made of wood; Paint and carve, And chip away. Pretend you made me But, I was always alive. Make me a mouth So I can give you back Your little words, Oh, Creator, Consumed by madness. My god without eyes Look and see: It fits, It fits.

Move if you Must

It’s not too late It’s never too late- Never too late But never easy To please. Nevermind, I’ll try to sleep, Nope Lost it again. Lost in your lips; your mind. Move if you must- I know I did, But never as angel do.