If these words aren't yours they will not stay --
They sift through your hands
Like dust in the shadow of a dune.
When you are ready to see,
They will wrap you in their softness
And sing in your silence.
Look at your being --
So covered in the jagged scars
Of self-created anguish
And abscesses of indecision.
They have rooted you to barren ground,
But this knife cuts clean.
Abandon the dried husk,
Show your wings to the wind --
And when you find the fertile soil,
Spread joy under the greening trees
And give your spirit to the sun.
The knife is self-knowledge. If you're not ready to really know yourself, no amount of words will help matters. When you reach the point where you can look at yourself, like yourself, and accept yourself, you become a samara... one of those winged "helicopter" seeds you find on maples and ashes. Catch the wind, plant yourself in happier, more fertile ground, and let yourself grow.
Not an easy trick, really, but I'm a lot closer than I used to be.