On the Razors Edge
If pain is an illusion then why does it cut so deep, like the razors edge it etches itself further and further leaving reminders of sins long past. And as each melancholy day passes us by we drag our selves further down into the dark abyss that is depression. Yet with each passing shadow comes a shaft of light to reach for but as the droplets of blood fall from the razors edge we slowly find ourselves back into the sad tale of monotony. With a slow pitter patter like rain we walk down a path of least resistance and yet cry out for more and as the next bright light passes new life is found. The hand now holds not a razor but a pen and where once was a reminder of a sin long forgotten now rests a flower beautifuly drawn.
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