knife’s edge 

there’s a typewriter concealed to the back of my mind,

ink blots stained into my fingers and palms,

crinkled papers beside me that I pulled from the bin

trying to forage some peace of mind through the routes of it all,

to salvage and preserve with only a few rips and wrinkles,

but these words’ll never spill out of the pages if I can help it,

yet there are some out there who paint weeds as blooming roses 
and crows as cuckoo birds

it’s not beautiful to glorify madness,

romantic ideals of cooped up lives

and estranged hearts led by dejected minds,

pretty pictures of disturbed realities only drag you down

reality isn’t easy,

that’s why no one promises security

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s