Sonnet to the Wicked Knife of Thought

Can I say my knife is that of my thought?
Cutting, slicing more vividly than sweat.
Rough that feels but is this not what I sought?
So soothing, deep like songs perfect beat.
Then a day come the beat becomes to sound,
And the blade of thought seeps my body through.
Agony I feel, I see, but want found,
My blood from ideas the knife but knew.
Escape I must not, for I do adore,
That ache I must sense to numb own fear.
Aleaved from the worlds hateful cure,
The burn, distress,cringe, like your I tear.
Maybe not so odd as I believe am
Then no longer I will meet the damned