Sticks tied to strings and allowed to dance.
At the hands of another, the only chance.

Controlled, told what and when to do.
"Your friend I'll be, if only this do you."

Never wanting you for what you are.
Needing to shape and control, bizarre.

Hung from their hand.
Moving to their band.

Feet not on the ground.
Silenced how profound.

Giving away ones' own dignity, who you really are.
Tossed here and there, stepped on like a spent cigar.

Cut the strings, one leg finds independence.
Uncontrollable they discard with vengeance.

Then the other leg, maybe an arm or two fall away.
Thrown into the trash you be, left to rot and decay.

Mend the pieces, put them back together, walk again.
True to yourself, liberated from the strings and pain.

Dance to the beat of your own marching band.
Free to smile, be glad, on your own legs stand.