Wooden hands creek as they grow, these puppet strings control my movements, as my reflection now resembles a toy;
Each day I only ever have just one wish, and that is to be a real boy.
Society telling me I am not normal, I have pieces of me which are now broken beyond repair;
My shiny button eyes now hide my emotions,
So why do people always have to stare?
I may have wooden ears, but I can still hear my sculptured mahogany heart beating, as it splinters through my dreams;
A dusty pile of shavings is all that now blows out with my screams.
I am expected to grow, because deep down I am a tree;
Through the window I see children playing, whilst I just sit on this shelf being me.
I wish I was normal, I wish I had eye lids as sometimes the suns reflection is just too bright;
If I was born, then can I die?
And just who taught this wooden hand how to write.
When I shave I use sandpaper, when I cry all you will see is the dust;
The hinges holding my joints together are starting to creak with the rust.
I am the wood that holds your pencil, encased around this lead;
A lifetime full of broken promises are now carved out as memories through my head.
I see people walking by my window every day, hiding under their umbrellas from the rain;
People just using me to fuel their fires, and I always react just like a moth to the flame.
People judge me for being different, I see that same dust each time that I bleed;
Can a puppet really have ambition?
As all I want to do is succeed.
When it’s dark my reflection shines back through the window, unveiling the tears of a clown sliding down this broken toy;
If I had a fairy godmother I would only ever have just one wish, and that is to be a real boy.
BARRY MOWLES ©2012