I am not real.
I am wooden.
Through and through.
Strings make me walk, make me talk
And guide me through my life.
While I watch through an outsider's lens
But sometimes my strings loosen,
Not enough to let me go,
But enough to feel warmth.
And to look around in a panic and see that
Everyone else is wooden too.
And then the strings are back.
But I wonder,
Sometimes I wish to be free of these strings.
Maybe others do.
But if I cut them,
Can I still stand?
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All resemblance to actual people, places, incidents, or things is completely coincidental.