Make a poem about a voodoo doll. (Do not believe, nor approve, but it was an interesting idea.)
I whisper into her ear and hear her speak.
She panics at the awareness.
It’s not her words pouring out, but the sentence go round.
I can feel her try to pull away but she’s forever attached to my dark magic,
fun for me, for her tragic. It’s euphoric.
My control is so real; she doesn’t even remember our deal, but it’s sealed.
Her walk resembles my wants, her actions my suggestions.
She’s my perfection. My creation.
I’m the master, of her disaster.