My Maze of a Mind

The Treachery of the Knives

This knive’s blood-stained,

and this one’s clean,

my favourite one does tend to gleam.

My knives exist for one sole reason;

inflicting pain,

committing treason.

This knive's serrated,

and this one's sharp,

my favourite one is good at art.

My knives exist for one sole reason;

inflicting pain,

committing treason.

This knive’s old,

and this one’s new.

My favourite one is beautiful too.

My knives exist for one sole reason;

inflicting pain,

committing treason.

The evidence is plain to see,

zigzagging patterns filled with glee.

My wrists are covered with them,

visible just from under my sleeve hem.

Treason to the Lord up High,

to religion,

to life.

As the world goes by.

The treason I’ve committed,

and that I have admitted,

will result in only one thing;

Hell for me with no more wings.

But I don’t care,

don’t easily scare,

so I keep my knives for reason,

just for committing treason.