The rail road track,
Was splattered with blood.
The train roared- but the train conductor was still able to hear the smack,
And he could still see the blood that had covered the body in a small flood.
But that's not all he remembered-No he remembered the sound of a crack,
The sound of the smack,
The sounds of him calling you back,
The feeling of knowing no one was coming back,
That felt like jet black,
He remembered carrying that feeling like as if his heart was a board and the feeling stuck there with a tack,
He remembers the colors you wore on that day of self attack,
He remembers it all-how could be forget always being terribly accompanied with constant and crashing of the flashback,
And still anytime his mind dared to look back,
He saw the image with so many shades of colors-but only felt pitch black.
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These sound like my old poems.
Maybe If I post them they won't tho.
I don't remember writing these.
I don't like this one.
