Once you’re punctured with reality,
When you’re stabbed with honesty,
Leave the knife in the wound.
They say taking it out,
Makes you bleed.
Maybe what you need,
Is a hideout.

Removing it makes it worse.
And I know it hurts,
But what doesn’t?

I’ve been through it all.
Stabbed right in the small
Of your back.
Something about being stabbed,
Something about being attacked,
Is that the fingerprints on the handle of the knife,
Are never from your enemies.
You can’t be stabbed by someone you lack
Trust for.

The ones you trust,
They hold that knife.
They hold that trust,
And they stab it.

They rip it into a million little shreds of
Ignorance.
Dependance,
That one day,
You’ll give in to them.
Your “friend”.

That friend who made you bleed,
Blood of hatred, of envy.
And you can’t keep pretending
That people will just
Stop.

You can wish and you can pray,
But you can’t avoid what they say.
They’ll stab you,
Every one of them.
They’ll ruin your life.
They’ll stab you strong.
They’ll stab you with each their own knife.
Custom made and carved,
“You did this wrong.”
As if I need a choir to sing me a song.
At least I’ll pay for it.
I don’t need all this s*** but I’ll
Accept it if it helps.
I know it doesn’t.
I know what I did,
But I don’t need 3,000 knives
To remind me of it.

I know what they said.
They said not to take them out,
But I do it anyway.
I take the knives out of my back,
I use them to write songs in my wrists.
But they don’t see s***.

I take every single damn knife out of my back,
And I write their names.
Songs of hatred.
Been betrayed.
I use their custom made,
Carved knives,
And I do the same.
I betray myself.
I don’t know who I am.
And at this point,
I don’t give a damn.

As if the knives,
Lodged in my spine.
As if the words,
Need to be rewinded,
As if this wouldn’t have happened
If I minded
My own business.
This year, my wishlist,
Is to become the person
I dreamed I would be
When I was a little kid.
Not an excuse,
We are who we choose
To be.
You can’t tell me,
You didn’t have some extraordinary,
Impossible dream
When you were three.
That dream,
Torn carelessly,
By someone named,
Reality.

I know that someone might
Treat me right.
I just have to find them,
Someone who’s been
Where I’ve been.
Someone who’s seen,
Someone who can win,
Or someone who’s tried,
I’ve always denied
That I had a tiny little,
Microscopic urge,
To try.
But I lied.
I’ve always hid inside.
I want to speak my mind.
I’m tired of people
Who don’t listen.
I’m tired of people.
I’m tired of livin’.
I’m tired of the knives,
That have been sitting,
Resting in my back,
For as long as I can remember.
I’m tired of rewriting their story,
I’m tired of vision being blurry,
These thoughts make me ache.
I’m tired,
But I’m wide awake.