Poisoned blood from poisoned scissorsA Poem by Tiffany EliseOkay, so it's a little bit dark, but it's pretty good for the crap I ususally write (:From my wrist to white scissors, My blood now on the ground, Drips of red now paint the floor, But these cuts will not be found. Every tear and every rip, Begin to let pain leave, In a dark red liquid, Staining my thin white sleeve. You see the slices bring no pain, Instead they let it go, because these scissors in my shaking hand, were once meant to sew. Not now, no, not now, Now they are stained like my sleeve, With a deep, dark,rich liquid, That only I can see. My blood is my own, And no one else should see, Even though poisoned, It still belongs to me. It is secret because of the color, A dark red that is so bold, A secret because of the feeling, Not warm but very cold. Atleast that’s how it feels with the poison, That now rests in my veins, the poison poured on the scissors, slowly takes my life away. And I guess I’ll go to hell, Since this is suicide, And I’m still barely breathing, But inside I’ve already died. © 2011 Tiffany EliseAuthor's Note
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2 Reviews Added on August 30, 2011 Last Updated on August 30, 2011 AuthorTiffany EliseOrlando, FLAboutHello peoplesies, my name is Tiffany, and I'm a writer! Well, that's a little bit obvious, this is Writers' Cafe, isn't it? Anyways, I write poems about love, but often write murder stories. It's odd,.. more..Writing
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