Dead Red

A blunted knife, a piece of glass,
I don’t care anymore.
Stab wound under the nights
Bickering brightness.
I need to hide; my evidence can’t be left,
A heightened pavement of denial waits.

Moss and pricks lay upon
The entrance face to my position.
Stains, an imprint of gashes that I kip with,
Thoughts why, just why?
Slip under influence,
Sober for no reason.

Only that carving cleaver, and me
Sticks and stones will fracture my bones,
But never will these scars heal.
Bones will crumble, but repair.
Punctures in my life,
A stitch in time; wants to be sewn.

Deep under not knowing,
A pile of emotions
That are running cross ways,
Never stopping at the lights.
Halting at the sign of red,
Blood falling profusely, I’m dead.