I've come to the decision
That friendship is a knife
You grab onto one for self defense
To protect your very life

You keep it by your side
And when things are looking grey
You clutch it even tighter
To keep your enemies at bay

The knife gives you security
And you know it is always there
But sometimes after a bit of time
That knife begins to wear.

The handle might break off
Leaving nothing but the blade
But it's the knife that you are used to
So you grab it; unafraid

It cuts into your hand
but you try to ignore the pain
Hanging onto this piece of you
Is worth the open vein

As you're hurting more and more
You hold on to the knife more firmly
Until the knife begins to hurt so much
That you are begging it for mercy

The tighter you hang onto it
The more damage it can do
Only one person can make it stop
In the end, that person is *you

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees -
Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My ****** form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

I'm sure after this, nothing will remain,
Not you or this, not even a stain,
For when my mind runs, you can't stop it,
No matter how fast you run, it will never quit,
So come to terms, knowing that nothing will remain,
That once it starts, all horrors-it claims,
It loves the dark cruel things,
And all the dark things they bring,
Like the image of you with another, any other,
Than me in your arms, as I'm in a storm,
That will never end, as I have no friends,
All dreams dead in this world, that my mind brings me to,
It leaves me small and curled, as this I didn't even choose,
But it happens anyways, and maybe this time it'll stay,
As nothing will remain, as everything from my life it will drain,
As I wake up with nothing, but a constant sting in my heart and a ring in my ears, as my eyes will have even lost all tears...
Will you still want to be around,
When I will have found; everything in my life-burnt to ash,
There is no catch, but no guarantee...
....that you won't get burnt down with me.