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Needles and Knives

Needles and Knives

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Published by Derric Saville

Needles and Knives Derric Saville January 14, 2011 The needles and knives returned to me, slapping my back like friends of old, espying me in a crowded ballroom, to welcome me into their circle, or perhaps more like the druggies bane, calling him hither with whispers of delight, yet my knives and needles, or needles and knives, burst from within, as if they start deep in the muscle, then plunge toward my soul, jerking and twisting all the same, as if I’d been shot from behind and to the left, pushing me farther into the crowd, with the mysterious stranger’s arms bursting into my back left shoulder like a bouncer pushing the belligerent drunk to the curb, hastening his trip home, to sleep off his last binge, but mine follows me there, and wakes me throughout the night, tossing me rag doll about the bed, awakening to an arm pulled fresh from its socket, swinging limply by my side, a full inch lower than the right, I stumble towards the mirror, and fix a steady gaze upon the injured body with which I’ve trod along, wond’ring how others get by with less, and still others have reached here untouched by wounds, this one of mine seems destined to self destruct, with the spurs creating phantom pains, that, while real to me, are not from a recent injury, but from my body “choosing” to slowly self destruct, almost wishing me the anguished pain of decrepticity, as a diversion from the omnipresent divination of deliverance, through the evil that brought me here, that I might ride this wounded carriage, atop the pock marked lane, swerving to miss the debris strewn afore my path, almost as if by purposeful thought, to ensure I reach the golden gate with only the plasmic energy of my soul, discarding my shorn self, with the whimsy of a dancer kicking off her shoes, or a kitten shaking the last bit of dew from her nascent paw, pausing once, then twice to look back at the emptied frame, and finally realize, I did the best I could.

Needles and Knives Derric Saville January 14, 2011 The needles and knives returned to me, slapping my back like friends of old, espying me in a crowded ballroom, to welcome me into their circle, or perhaps more like the druggies bane, calling him hither with whispers of delight, yet my knives and needles, or needles and knives, burst from within, as if they start deep in the muscle, then plunge toward my soul, jerking and twisting all the same, as if I’d been shot from behind and to the left, pushing me farther into the crowd, with the mysterious stranger’s arms bursting into my back left shoulder like a bouncer pushing the belligerent drunk to the curb, hastening his trip home, to sleep off his last binge, but mine follows me there, and wakes me throughout the night, tossing me rag doll about the bed, awakening to an arm pulled fresh from its socket, swinging limply by my side, a full inch lower than the right, I stumble towards the mirror, and fix a steady gaze upon the injured body with which I’ve trod along, wond’ring how others get by with less, and still others have reached here untouched by wounds, this one of mine seems destined to self destruct, with the spurs creating phantom pains, that, while real to me, are not from a recent injury, but from my body “choosing” to slowly self destruct, almost wishing me the anguished pain of decrepticity, as a diversion from the omnipresent divination of deliverance, through the evil that brought me here, that I might ride this wounded carriage, atop the pock marked lane, swerving to miss the debris strewn afore my path, almost as if by purposeful thought, to ensure I reach the golden gate with only the plasmic energy of my soul, discarding my shorn self, with the whimsy of a dancer kicking off her shoes, or a kitten shaking the last bit of dew from her nascent paw, pausing once, then twice to look back at the emptied frame, and finally realize, I did the best I could.

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Published by: Derric Saville on Jan 15, 2011
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1 thousand reads
Derric Saville added this note
Awake at 2:30 with a putative mace in my back left shoulder
Derric Saville added this note
We can only do what we can do, if we could do more, we certainly would.
Derric Saville added this note
Every morn twixt 1:00 and 4:00 I wake to the Needles and Knives gleefully taking turns at my misery.
Derric Saville added this note
Pain is Pain.
Derric Saville added this note
A night of pain filled imploding awaits me this night.
Derric Saville added this note
If anyone comments that they want to read the ending I will open the second page. Let me know.
1 hundred reads
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