𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚢

Intrusive Thoughts

I had a dream I killed my father.

He bled,
And bled,
And bled.

He stained the carpet red,
He's leaking from his head.

I looked him in the eyes.

He's dead,
He's dead,
He's dead.

How well he made his bed,
With all the things he said.