Blood
It runs warm and wild
right down my thigh.
I can't control it,
all I do is smile.
Am I psychotic,
if I want it to last
a little while?
This blood
it flows through my veins,
as a killer,
for making me feel.
Feeling is good,
some would say.
Not if you
have ever felt
this way.
How bad could it be,
you smile and say.
Let me take this
razor blade to you,
and you'll feel this way.
You're a pansy to pain,
you always run from what hurts.
Why didn't you stay,
I'm sure it would've worked.
By you running away,
trying to save me
from the 'pain',
You only made it worse,
And for that,
there's endless remorse