Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by HippieHugsx3, Sep 3, 2010.

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  1. HippieHugsx3

    HippieHugsx3 Active Member

    The cold blade cuts warm flesh,
    making love, & producing
    red & hot blood, making it's way out of
    a fresh open wound.
    Little blue veins dance next to it,
    intricate rivers of the red liquid oozing
    out of your wrist. You feels a pulse throb as
    as the bleeding slows.
    Even as the coolness is removed, a prescense
    is still felt, a pressure. You can't ignore it
    even though it's light. It soon swallows
    your heart, like the monster under your bed.
    This isn't the Boogeyman, or Dracula
    come to suck you dry, this monster is different.
    This monster is guilt.

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    I wrote this last night after I cut. After I did it, I felt guilty, and that's pretty much what it's all about.
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