Marionette

I am
         a shell,
                   a sheep,
         a girl,
lost in the pursuit of self discovery
           I am fluid thread,
strung along barbed wire fences
      I am a person tied to a needle
woven into quilts of docility,
            predicted rain
              falling ever so gently,
           familiar and replacable
forgotten in the aspects of a whole
       stuffed quietly into shadows
a whispered hush when inflections raise
                and I do
  I silence when you tell me to
and dance on command
        your little marionette girl,
    notes of a recorder sliding through your fingers
                    I drop
trickiling off the ends
       the beads of sweat after
exertion, expected, you expect me
        I am expectedly unstable

The prose of Christa (From the fingers of a friend)

               Haunting,
                 digging deep
into the center of my gravity,
        through my thoughts they
           taunt me,
spreading from the tip of my tounge
   down my throat,
 they infect
every inch of imagination
  lingering pleasant after tastes
they harass, punching deep into
   matriculating
                      lines
the typed prose abusive words strung together,
           drugging me.
the only kind of abuse I like.

I need help revising please?

Sunlight quenches pale flesh
the golden rays reflecting every imperfection
so long hidden by the darkness
the blinding light of hope
erradicates that of solitude
coaxing into effervesent arms
feeble shadows animated by the
drive, tiny voices screaming
with such forced to push ahead
hoisting hope over barren walls
hanging on frail tree branches
trusted not to snap.