Knife

The knife is bloody, long and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

Until then I shall not sleep,

I lie in bed with ducts that weep.

 

I rise from my bitter bed,

With thoughts of sadness in my head,

I idolise being dead.

Facing the day with never ending dread.

 

The knife, the knife - it haunts me so,

Stunting me as I grow,

This is a tale of woe,

For that I already know.

 

The marks I’ve made upon my skin,

Reminding me that I’ll never win,

And watching as my face grows thin,

Makes me lose my grin.

 

Maybe the knife is a friend,

Maybe it is my end,

Maybe it’s time I descend,

Or maybe this is a dead end.

 

I have so much to do and so little time,

Mountains and Mountains - I climb and I climb,

I am somehow in my prime,

But breakdown in pieces after bedtime.

 

The cycle repeats day in and day out,

Bringing on such a drought,

For that my face it pouts,

Filling my head with doubt.

 

Hear me cry, scream, and bark,

Lighting up the darkest dark,

I have made many marks,

And for that there goes my spark...

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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