Broken Marionette

I lay on the floor, a Broken Marionette.
The pains of my life, I can't seem to forget.
In an empty room on a cold dark floor.
Strings long since cut and remembered no more.

Forgotten am I, not one does mourn.
My little clothes tattered, tattered and torn.
Slumped in a corner, tears fall from my eyes.
If my strings weren’t cut, I'd wipe away my cries.

But crooked I lay, all drenched in tear.
A Broken Marionette without Puppeteer.