Drip.
Drip
Drip.
I still hear the blood dripping to them floor,
While my head bangs against the bathroom door,
the screaming echos in my mind,
my earphones connected from behind.
The music blasts
The faces of my hidden past.
The blood pours firm my wrist
Feeling sheer bliss
The white tiled floor,
Stained with my blood forever more.
YOU ARE READING
suicidal thoughts poems
PoetryThis is not a story but a book of poems, my wonderful friends gave me the idea so thank u guys hope you enjoy reading these poems as much as I enjoyed writing them for you.
