Pinocchio

“I want to be new. I want to be real. I want to be alive.”

I’m tired of the scratches,
the dents and divots and dings,
this wooden flesh with creaking joints,
and solid throat that cannot sing.
I’m tired of being without breath,
without will, without thrill, and all that living brings.

It’s my own clumsy fingers
that torture my deadened flesh,
scraping uselessly at imperfections
my Maker glories in.
I mightn’t notice them at all,
if I was still a young and shining thing.
I shutter my painted eyes,
imitate a breath and say,
“From now I will love me as I am,”
but with the tolling of the bells
I find myself again
pounding out unhappy rhythms
on uncooperating skin.

I’m tired of the cracks,
the details and colors fading,
these clacking teeth, insensate ears,
and carved eyes still waiting—
I’m tired of being without love,
without ‘try,’ without ‘die,’ and all the risk of being.

I hang from the rafters naked,
waiting to be clothed anew,
then sent on stage to clap and swing
and bring my viewers to tears—
of mirth or sorrow, it matters not;
only that they were touched, and spread the news.
Then back into my box I’m folded again:
an airless coffin less courteous
than ones dead men sleep in.
It brings my Maker pleasure, I know,
when I dance as he intends.
I’m made this way by his design
yet I long for something more.

I’m tired of the dust,
the old tap-tapping routines,
the peeling stage, my stale, cramped cage,
and the stained and fraying strings.
I’m tired of being without a mind,
without voice, without choice, and all that performance means.

I know what it is to be alive;
I watch day in and day out
as the people rush or saunter by—
my own private, backward show.
I’m so cleverly made I can mimic
quite well a human being’s airs.
I laugh and cry, I run and bleed—
and sometimes I even seem to die.
There is one glaring difference,
and it isn’t even my strings:
While each real man walks hand in hand
with others, except for my Maker,
I am alone.

I’m tired of the years—
no human span competing—
this splintered cask I call my chest,
but where no heart lies beating.
I’m tired of being the same,
no chance, no hope of change…

Hear me, Maker. I am weeping.