The Master of Puppets Has Not Won

As the seasons went round and round,
I remained a marionette,
Nodding mechanically,
As they labored to convince me,
That I would never make it.

But I could hear the Winds,
Howling outside my room.
They infiltrated,
Broke the regime,
And helped me,
Believe.

When at last I cut my strings,
I could not falter.
I had my own legs,
And the Wind's words,
In my pockets.

I have made it through the spring,
Soaring to astonishing heights.
And one couldn’t identify me,
As the string-puppet from before.
I have wholly believed that there's nothing
At all, that I cannot do.


But I've suddenly found that,
There are things that I cannot do.
And it is shaking the framework,
That I bled to construct.

I close my eyes now and can feel the cold chains,
And cruel words from the lips of the puppet master,
Trying to dismantle my belief in my self.
I struggle to stand tall.

I WILL SUCCEED.
I WILL SUCCEED.
I WILL SUCCEED.

But I've got my belief in my back pocket,
My next attempt will be ablaze with victory.
And I shall burn this whole city down.