The Walls

The blood runs down streaking the walls,
as I felt the cries and heard the calls.

The cries of pain and the calls of fear,
yet she'd never shed a single tear.

She let you stab a knife right through her,
tear her up inside and abuse her.

She lies in a coffin so quiet and still,
I guess you thought you just had to kill.

I couldn't believe a heart so kind and true,
would turn out to be a murderer; it was you.

You stood there as the blood stained the white walls,
as I felt the cries and heard the calls.

-I had a vivid dream the other night; about five months ago, and I had to write it in a poem. Hope you don't mind the sad, emo-istic me!