Where is that knife now?
#1 of Poetry
This had been a poem I wrote about six months ago when I had been depressed. I can only seem to write poetry when my emotions stand strong.
You had promised to take the knife out You ask, where is that knife now? The knife, you so called 'yanked out' When all you did, was twist and deepen the pain
All I was.. was a pawn in your game. You ask me, where is the knife now? The one.. you so called ripped out.. When you walked to my backside.. laughing at my pout.
I turn around, blood running down.. My heart racing, you ask me.. Where is that knife now? Your smile, so caring and daring..
Yet, behind that mask.. Is a sinister grin.. One that would tear me apart and wear me thin. My heart.. was played with once again. You knew this whole time, when you asked... Where is that knife now.
You would see and wait, if I would lie and beg.. See me wallow in self pitty, and drag my feet to bed. My hair, falling and matting in my face.. Red tears steaming down my cheeks..
You ask if I'm blushing.. I say yes, when I know it's not true. You think you won, but I'll turn the tables on you. What you don't know, is I play a little game myself.
I know how to wreak havoc and hell. Regret and misery is my pleasure. I take the knots, and tie them together.. I fasten them to your waist so tight.. You scream in fright.
Revenge.. is my friend. You aren't the one who took the knife out. You give me that little puppy pout.. Asking me.. Where is that knife now.
Unexpectedly, I pull it out. Running my tongue along the fine, blood blade.. A sadistic smile crosses my lips.. I'm the one that pulled it out.. Not you.
I now ask you.. Why did you play the game? Was it because you wanted fame? Or to loose to me, at the end.. I realize this...
We're both truly the same.