Pure

Everyone has a thirteen year old kid inside, the one with the knife against both throats.
He takes several steps back, the knife cutting the flesh.
He is the one falling for people,
his passion based on countless rumors
blinding out the pure feelings,
as his blood pours down, like a stab in the stomach.
He is the reason for the sudden stop and turn,
as the question why is held, above the banality
and the thoughts lying in the pile of blood,
as the chest gets gripped and falls onto the floor, the inside exposed.
Am I pure banality?
And then you realise that you're alone
no one to fed the thirteen year old or the hanging upon the door you.

-

This is an old poem, written about a year ago, I guess. On the iPad, actually it has an oddly nice feel when you write and I remember I used to have the volume so that the noise of a typewriter would be there.

I have an obsession with keyboards, I love their feel.

We've all danced with death