A Collection of Mediocre Poetry

"Drops"

One drop, two drops, three drops, four.

The knife blade seems to ask for more.

Five drops, six drops, seven drops, eight.

Cut away this world of hate.

Nine drops, ten drops...

Make it stop.

Make it stop.

Just please wash off all the drops

Of red once held by perfect skin

The shame I felt about my sin

Is no longer there

Do I taste pennies in the air?

Or is that just blood in my hair?

​​​​​​I do not care.

These drops, these drops of crimson blood

They run and run, they seem to flood

My room and body with this fear

Which has reduced me to these tears

I know I should not

Therefore I would not

Except that I could not

Live without making slots

Or open wounds where blood shall clot

Where tissues try so hard to blot

My skin of red and tan and brown

I'm just too scared to make a sound.

Or tell my friends

I'll be a burden

Telling my mom

Would be absurd and

Telling me to stop

Will just make me make more drops.

So it won't stop.

It can't stop.

So Ill just live with these drops.

~dedicated to my lovely friend