Seven Knives

At times it feels as if seven knives have struck me in seven specific spots.

One of them being in the rear from all those hurtful glares.

Another one is in my ear from the things one can't unhear but for no other stupid reason were already said.

Now one might think for two out of seven, that isn't that bad of luck

But just wait, I'm only opening the gate and then we'll start the clock

Number three tickles me whenever I sit down

As its in my side, you'll be surprised, these "friends" were the talk of my town.

I'll say I should have known back then of a frown to exit with time-bound friends.

The next one is in my arm, for it is tired and sore. Worked so hard on each new trend of my aching heart.

Yet again, to feel this new wind, it doesn't want to start.

The next one is in my littlest toe.

It's those ones you've got to watch out for.

The boots I wear may be the most shiny and bright.

The things, the types of things and the better things; tend to shine better in a different kind of light.

Knife number six is the excuse of my stupidity.

As a result of those who think I'm crazy.

This one drives like a screw deep into my brain causing that stench and gross spew.

Now don't be alarmed, you're in too far.

Not every one of my problems is someone else's fault.

This last knife I've placed within my own heart. As I have crafted and sharpened this one myself,

The self loathing, the shame, all feels the same and I keep wanting to part.

So there you go, Seven knives stabbed in me for all to see.

Blood puddles instead of bread crumbs

No roses, no flowers, just art.