Drops Of Blood

A differnet kind of poetry,
A psycho kind of art;
The way the words twist violently
When coming from a broken heart.

I hate the newest kind of tears
The blood-red pain that drips.
I hate the sick addiction:
The cutting of the wrist.

I stand here alone, I am
trying to remember
The way that it felt in
Hopes that I might help her.

And I hate all the same old
LIES
That I can see
In the depths of your eyes.

You don't want to be happy
You want a reason to be sad.
It makes me want to slap you
And we're both going to go mad.

And I stand here biting my nails
Trying to figure out why,
Trying to wipe away
All the drops of blood you cry.