(E. Pugh)
The pocket knife hung
Closed to society
Afraid to open
In fear of responsibility
The knife's half open
But could still break your heart
Letting in hatred from the dark
Ventures out only after rehearsing his part
Fully open now
Soaking in the pain from outside
Seething with anger to fit his crowd
He's sharp enough to cut your lying hide
Folding out to pain
Should have stay locked
To the outside
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