poem: puppet
written: 4:25 p.m. on Saturday, Feb. 19, 2005

Sometimes you think that he�s your property
just because it�s his voice that traverses from your CD player
his face you see looking back at you on the walls of your room
and you think that you could easily touch him
with a mere stretch of the arm to where his face seems to be

but all you succeed in grabbing is air.

He doesn�t have to be just air;
in fact, he is so much more than that.
It began with the music, I�m sure,
and then everything catapulted to something more.
Something like�idol worship.

flashlights cameras screams from adoring fans

It�s more than the music now. You want a piece of him
to stay with you forever. You want him a certain way,
as if he�s your puppet whose strings were specially
strewn onto his skin by your very own demeaning hands.
You want him to conform, to please you (even if he doesn�t even know you)
to tailor-fit his life to meet your demands.

mobs car chases screams from over-zealous fans

But the thing with him is really quite simple:
He�s not a puppet; he�s not yours to mould; he�s not yours to own.
He�s his own person.
Perhaps genius was his biggest curse: it resents fame
with an insidious bitterness
that he�s only recently acquired; he�s less of a human being because of it.

rumours tall tales screams from angry fans

Scene one, and he�s scratching quavers and clefs
onto his score sheets; how you love him for it!
You give him your approval, buy his albums because he�s talented,
and scene two, he�s singing his heart out for you
live, one night only, and you scream your heart out for him,
and nothing has changed. You love him for his music
and then some.

applause encore screams from approving fans

Scene three, and he has his arm around another woman�s shoulders.
Scene four, and he�s holding her hand; he embraces her because he�s chosen her.
Perhaps he�s found happiness, something which he deserves,
a permanent, meaningful kind that you could never provide. And that proves to be true:
you tear down his posters, throw out his CDs, boycott his next album.
He�s just cut the strings that you�ve sewn, found his own wings
and that makes you mad because now you realise
he can never be yours. He was never yours.

backlash apologies screams from two-faced fans

when you�ve finally figured out what you really want from him
it might be too late. The vicious media would�ve almost devoured him;
and the final nail would be hammered in by your very own hands.
If it began with the music, then let it end with the music;
it�s about the music, isn�t it? He�s brilliant because of it,
not who he chooses to date (and it�s not quite your business either).

Give him space and let him fly.

19 February, 2005, 2.20 a.m.

before sunrise // before sunset

Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010