At the bottom of the showers I sit
and let the blood trickle free
Drip
My sleeves soak in the warm red cloths
As I puddle the floor of the nested crows
Drip
No man is here, no man should be
Just a shell of what used to be.
An emptyness that writhes in pain
Shows now mercy to my veins
Drip
Let my blood serve another master
Let the ink scribe some other sir
I do not deserve the pen and the pad
Nor should I ever linger with the living or the dead.
Drip
I am but an empire of blood and dirt
And deserve an entire world of hurt.
DRIP
Where The blood has dried old
And my shallow heart beats no more
And all is left is silence
YOU ARE READING
The Neo-Bipolar
PoesíaIm actually terrified to share this stuff with you all. I struggle with a lot of demons and really just need the support and superficial attention that I lack. This is continued poetry from bipolar poems, just a new me, some newer thoughts, feelings...
