Naught but a puppet,
One under their control.
They play with his emotions,
Having the tightest hold.

One of red, one of blue,
One of fury, one of despair.
The anger and regrets fight him,
And not well does he fare.

They control his life,
They control the strings.
Rage and deep sorrow,
Are the (t)ortures they bring.

But no-one knows--
He hides them well.
He wears a smiling masque,
While his life is in....

-Phoenix

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