As I write these poems
As I listen to my moans
I will write it in blood
As my pain comes from my crimson flood
I may scream, but nobody will hear
As they come from my sorrowful fears
I may cry, but nobody will see
For they are tears, hidden they remain to be
I am alone, here in this home
Along with this bloody white foam
For I write poems with blood instead of ink
Now for my poems, in blood I sink

 
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