Today I touched a blade,
I rubbed against it and it all felt the same.
I couldn’t tell the difference between the purple and the red
From it drenched every drip against the metals melted way
I couldn’t tell the difference between the fire and the rain,
And every drink I sipped
It all tasted the same.
My hurt,  I thought was loving,
My loving only hurt.
My mind weighed out and my heart feather like,
Should I have never let it flown?
-kn

Sometimes I forget
My own handwriting
And my "A"s come out wrong
Not looking at all like me
So I have to look back
At poems from yesterday
And forge my own signature
If I manage to remember
Where I set my pen down

I wish I could speak words that assuage
But I’m nothing but an introvert
I’ve accepted this and that’s ok
I’ll type the words out in hopes of an alert
That you have read and agreed
At least that’s something I want to believe
But who am I kidding you don’t follow me
So I will admire from afar and dream
Of you
My sweet
Beatrice

It's one of those nights,
When I take off from Netflix,
Dump all those excuses,
Give a break to my life,
And sit down to write
About
Those little daisies
Tenderly flickering in the air,
About
Those specks of dust
Warmly mingling with the sunlight in my room,
About
That last particle of confetti
From the party popper to land on the earth,
About
That hushed tick tock
Of a forgotten clock on the wall,
About
That breathy crackle
Sung by a fire under the moon,
About
The stardust
Enveloping all of us,
About
Me.
It's one of those nights again.

Classic trepidation, stationary with the aura of
Coincidence, slit myself and call it skyward thinking
Sinking feelings that argue for a sudden resignation
Conscientiousness, leprous and typesetting

Intimate knowledge that I disclose verbatim cannot, and should not, ever be used against me.
Interest infected through wavelengths, non responsive partly cause of the rupturing that's been running through my dreams.
Scant as fixes to the problems, overblown and oft forgotten, lisping when I speak of this Epiphany.
Taxidermist furnish houses, howling wolves that get devoured, sounds like God and hell and them finally worked out peace.

Just cosmetic, slightly pathetic the ease at which the mind elapses
Classics retconned till nothing's left except the years of influence
Invested in the melancholy, snobs lobbyist and in distant memories