Knots of Knowing: A Stream of Consciousness Poem #SoCS

Knots of Knowing: A Stream of Consciousness

You kneel on the edge of thought,
knowing and not-knowing, wrapped in the knotted threads of time.
Your knees bruise against the earth,
but the earth is soft, softer than the silence in your chest.
Knuckles crack under the weight of the unknown. You don’t ask.
No questions, not anymore. Not after the night
the stars knelt too, folding their light into your palms.
Knives of memory cut clean through the fabric of now.

You are knotted to the past, knotted to every door you never opened,
knotted to words unsaid, letters untyped,
to a lover you never called by name,
because names are knots you couldn’t undo,
and now their faces blur into the folds of your mind.
Knew them once, didn’t you? Or did they know you?
Does it matter?

You knit your days like tangled yarn,
unraveling the hours only to find they twist back on themselves.
The loop repeats, repeats, repeats—
and you wonder if you’re still you,
or some knot of someone else’s lost intention.
If you pull hard enough, will the strings snap?
Would you want them to?

Knock, knock, but no one’s there.
You feel the door in your bones,
the heavy wood pressing against your skin,
knocking against your ribs,
but it doesn’t open.
Does it even exist?

You know nothing, or maybe you know everything.
The difference is a gossamer thread,
a knot tied too tight to see through.
And what of the knaves, the fools who dared to untie themselves?
Did they slip into the wind? Did they float like dust motes,
or did they drown in the tide of their own undoing?
You wonder, but you don’t dare follow. Not yet.

Your knees ache with the weight of waiting,
knowing that stillness is a kind of motion too.
You knock on the door again, softly this time,
not expecting an answer,
because the answer is the knot you wear around your neck,
dangling like a forgotten key.

Knots and knells,
knowing and never knowing,
it’s all the same, isn’t it?

You step forward, your knuckles white,
and untie the question—
not with your hands, but with your breath.
The air smells like before,
but your chest heaves like after,
and the thread snaps,
just as it should.

#StreamOfConsciousness #Poetry #ExperimentalWriting #KnotsOfLife #MemoryAndTime #PoeticExploration #CreativeWriting