Letters I Haven't Written Yet


The knife itself is thin and sharp,

Falsely delicate, bright and beautifully vicious.

It’s wielder’s music the softest harp,

His song not the slightest bit suspicious.


When stabbed I feel nothing until after the knife has been removed,

And all I see is a pool of blood on the floor.

Though the reasons for the wound will remain unproved,

Looking into his eyes, I am certain there will be more.


Wielders are everywhere, out for all to see.

Colleagues, peers, superiors and ones who name themselves friend.

Those who say they will keep you free,

Spewing nothing but false kindness as they offend.


With no weapons worthy of such betrayal in my arsenal,

I have no knife of my own, I doubt survival is possible.