Sharper than the Butcher’s knife
I sat through the long nights,
Bit my fingernails, reminisced about joys I could no longer find,
And so all along I knew it in my fragile mind:
The warmth and love I yearned for was a bigger lie.
My memory foam has one body and bed sheets are on the grayer side.
My pupils dilate in the absence of a brighter light.
They stay wide… I could be blinded by the smallest lights.
A glimmer of hope could be sharper than the butcher’s knife.
It almost feels like I’m at the bottom of a landslide.
My memories don’t carry the same warmth that they used to have.
I’m not even sad; I can’t remember what it means to feel.
Life is predictable. No surprises, just a lonely mind.
It’s not peaceful; it’s an empty, unstable mind.
Sometimes I’m too tired to laugh at a decent joke,
Too distracted to even notice when my smile broke.
I’ve got my head high and chest out like a proud bloke.
I can only do so much until the stars show.
Creeping eyes around, they’ve been looking at me,
Writing detailed notes about what they see.
I thank the stars for being dim with the lights.
I can’t imagine what they’d write if they could see at night.
Posted Sep 2, 2026, 12:40 PM UTC