I have one life,
but many sides.
To some, I killed.
To some, I broke free.
To some, I am good.
To some, I am bad.
I sigh.
Perfection is just too hard to chase.
I tried to please,
I gave my best to it,
I began cracking.
My sharpness became dull,
but it ended to no avail.
I was wrong.
Funny how one person
can be many things
in different eyes.
Maybe I’m not a good person.
Maybe I’m not a bad one either.
Maybe I’m not paradoxical.
I’m just me.
Like a knife
I can hurt,
I can protect,
I can cut my way out.
It all depends
on who holds me.
So, is the problem the knife,
or the hand holding it?
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