My Sharp Knife


The Wind blows in the window
It’s cold out once again.
Late hours can always find my tired eyes.
When all else is asleep and quiet,
When others have laid down
Their head and put away
The troubles in their life,
Slowly with a cautious hand
I reach out to my pain.

With paper and pen in hand,
I step through the doorway.
Seeking to achieve understanding,
Some sort of clarity,
I relive the past and its fierce truths.

When I can take no more,
When the tears flow to hot
I slowly back my self away
And sit by the window
Once again.

The past is a sharp knife,
Useful if respected, dangerous if not.

I am careful with it.
I have to be.

It keeps me honest.