Wooden Lies
A Stream of Consciousness Poem for the Unfiltered Challenge
Prologue
Pinnochio's always been a favorite Disney character, and a tool parents use to remind children not to fib. And he reminds adults of the consequence of their delusions.
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
I wanted to be real, thatβs allβ
to have flesh and bones,just like you.
But I told them what I had to,
and they trusted me,
didnβt they?
I smiled at them, I nodded,
and twisted the truthβ
until it shattered.
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
Do they see me now?
The way my nose grows,
not just in front of my face,
but into everything,
curling up into dead knots.
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
I wanted freedom once beforeβ
to walk, to jump,
but each word carved deeper into the wood,
Splitting.
Splitting.
Splat.
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
Real kids tell the truth, they saidβ
but Iβm not real, am I?
(Not yet, not yet.)
So I say what they want me to.
(Wouldnβt you?)
A lieβs better than dead silenceβ
the hollow thump on the wood
where a heart should beat.
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
But a lie never ends, does it?
One lie merges with the next,and I pull it,
Tug,
Pull,
Stretch,
longer, thinner,strung like a stiff puppet
with too many hands
pulling.
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
Whoβs pulling me?
Is it Geppetto?Jiminy?
Or someone darker,
Someone nameless?
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
The strings tighten with each pull,
and I hear the awful creakof my wooden limbsβ
but I smile to please them,
hoping they wonβt notice
my stiffness,
my tightness.
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
They believed me once.
But nowβthey see my nose,
the way it stretches before me
making a path of no return.
Perhaps theyβre lying, too.
(A lie defends another.)
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
If I could stop thisβ
just tell the truth for one momentβ
but how can a puppet know the truth?
Whatβs real when all Iβve ever been is wood,
someone elseβs dream?
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
I wanted to be real,
but all Iβve made are tales,
so tall that, in the dark,
when my strings are still,
they cast their shadow on the wall.
Theyβre always thereβ
growing,
Growing.
Growing.
So huge Iβm lost beneath them.
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
Maybe when Iβm good,
Iβll wake up one fine day,
no strings, no woodβ
just the truth.
ππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊπΉπͺπππ€‘πΊ
Iβll be a boy, a real boy,
with a thumping heart
instead of splintering legs.
But until thenβ
one more tale,one more fib.
Just one more.
(It wouldnβt hurt, would it?)
About the Creator
Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin
Hi, i am an English Language teacher cum freelance writer with a taste for pets, prose and poetry. When I'm not writing my heart out, I'm playing with my three dogs, Zorra, Cloudy and Snowball.
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