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It's Raining Blood
Crimson, crimson, dripping on the glass,
The macabre scarlet upon the grass,
Seeping, seeping, into the ground,
And from my Heart this blood doth pound.
Crimson, crimson, on the pane,
Place my cheek there--chilling bane.
Breathing, breathing, out comes Fog;
I thought my love could relieve the smog.
But my Love is Greed,
And to it I must heed,
This
Need, this Need,
This Torturous Need.
Crimson, crimson, on the Glass, the deathly Scarlet upon the grass,
Soaking, soaking, into the ground,
And from my heart this blood doth pound.
Place my palm upon the pane,
Chilling, chilling,
Is this warm bane.
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In this poem, a girl realizes that love is not what she had dreamed it would be, and she ponders--mourns--this. She tries to get in touch with a part of herself she's hidden, and finds it difficult, for our worst enemies are often ourselves.