My Personal Flow

I stood by the window.
Skies gray, the wind whispering-
The trees a faint outline against the rain...
The blood i shed,
my flowing pain.

I throw down the knife.

The window sill,
was painted white-
and was bright against the dimming light.
But, stiller now the wind becomes,
and dies down to a gentle hum.

It's so quiet.

The night stands still,
the star's light fades,
I need to end,
these bloodstained ways.

But its part of me.

I scream aloud,
begin to fall.
There's noone left,
none at all.