• My body is a marionette,
    Pulled and tugged with strings unseen,
    By the puppeteer deep inside my mind,
    His dark bidding unleashed upon my body,
    His wicked games begin,
    My body moves, yet I do not will it,
    His restlessness singes my soul,
    I cry out in agony and pull against my strings,
    But it is in vain, for the pressure only cuts me more,
    The puppeteer is in control, and all my efforts useless,
    I succumb to his twitches and jerks,
    And loathe his very being.

    My efforts come in pills and procedures,
    But he laughs as they do more harm than good,
    And as I look up through my tears and frustration,
    A curtain opens and the lights are upon me,
    I see others like me, yet they have no strings,
    No puppeteer to own their core,
    They sit in their seats and laugh
    And point as if I am on show,
    “Why does he jerk, why does he twitch?”
    “Is it a joke, is it a trick?”
    A string jerks once more and my eyes snap shut in pain,
    The crowd erupts in laughs and jests,
    Confusion, questions, the onslaught doesn’t rest.

    My anger builds for them as well,
    For why are they without the strings,
    That make me do these horrible things?
    Why do they get to sit in rest,
    Without this fire inside their breast?
    I lunge at them in fits of rage,
    But I’m thrown back again, beast in a cage,
    The strings cut me -- deep into my skin,
    And p***k me with their tiny pins.
    I scream and cry and wince in pain,
    But the puppeteer keeps up his games,
    I look around in jealousy,
    And through my tears I clearly see,
    Another just as strung as me.

    He fights against his beasts and stands,
    And brings together both his hands,
    He starts to clap and starts to cheer,
    But that only I can hear,

    He says, “I know how it is to be set on stage,
    The laughs, the hurt, the tears, the rage,
    But that is what will keep you there,
    The object of their heartless stare.
    Those are strings, they are not chains,
    Grip them tight like Clydesdale’s reigns,
    And ride this out, for it’s your show,
    And how it’s played only you know.”

    His words of comfort touched me deep,
    And my eyes have since ceased to weep,
    For I’ve realized this is a part of me,
    And though the puppet master named Tourette’s
    Will remain with me ‘til I’m put to rest,
    It’s still my show, it’s still my play,
    Here’s to the encore for another day.