The knife was the paintbrush
the wrists were the canvas
painted on, with harsh red lines
till the ground ran red with blood
and tears.
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PoetryPoems, just poems. This is pretty much my notebook, where I write down stray thoughts and ideas. These poems are not always about me or anyone specific. Highest Ranking: #53 6/8/17 #106! 4/25/17 #94! 4/26/17 #85! 4/27/17 #78! 5/1/17 #71 5/8/17...
