Like a Knife

Like a knife,
I'm full of edges;
Rough edges, sharp edges,
cutting a strait through to inner meanings.
 
It's telling when your gaze leaves lines of fear,
and your words take them aback.
Of course a single cut can kill.
Every child is taught this when they're young...
 
***
 
It makes a child sensitive if they're treated like a knife.
Dangling from the hilt down,
Lacking affection.
Treated like a tool.
 
It makes an adult angry,
To be so carefully handled so segregated from their peers.
How would any knife feel to be left outside the box of forks and spoon?
No consideration, does a knife get.
Cowards.
 
It makes the old and wise sad
To see the same treatment given to others.
The same mistakes made,
The same days and the same situations.
They always want better for those that wouldn't be forced otherwise.
 
I'm none of these things.
I'm a weapon I myself use.
My eyes dig deep and leave scars,
My words leave gashes and furrows.
My hands destroy that which I touch.
But I control me.

I don't have to be a knife.
I don't have to hurt or kill.
I'm only like a knife.
To transform otherwise…would be unlike me.


ISA

P.S. from Mike: (Sorry people. It seems like this month is going to be used for Inspirationals with 'Metals' as the theme. Oh, and it seems like it may be a question to this, so... I don't write these. My friend, ISA, is the one who does. I only maintain this blog for him. I'm his editor. I don't normally leave these, but I've gotten more than one question as of late from friends offline, so I thought I'd answer the question here.

We're planning an AMA/AUA soon though. Please send your questions in. THANKS!)

The Needle

Pin, pin, push it in
-to little holes beneath the skin
(that are) left to bleed beneath their touch
till the pain becomes much too much.
They just dig deeper, further down
till the pin begins to drown
and the seas inside, they rise and fall
to keep the secret over all.
 
 Not the heart, not the brain;
You're much too focused on the pain
of a truth-ful needle poking in
And busting lies beneath the skin.
 
Boils, blemishes;
they're both diminishes
that the needle seeks to find;
little, tiny, self-told lies.
 
It's not enough that the needle may be right;
so were leeches in their time.
It may be just that you're feeling the burn
(of truth) before you're in the urn. The final turn.
 
Hello Death, I loved your poison prick.


ISA