deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Blood Drips Black

Her Blood drips black,
as it is vile and repugnant.
The puddles whirl around in circles,
because they liked to be redundant.
The knife she used was old and rusty;
it had her most favorite feel.
She tossed it aside, it had no more use to her,
because the pain was too real.
She no longer liked what she had done,
and wished the pain away.
But she withered away in hurt,
and she died that very same day.



*Inspired by a book we were reading in AP LIT, 'Wuthering Heights'
Written by ZexionKingdomHeart
Published
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