I took it in hand it bled my pain, crimson ink
was entombed on each stroke my torment spilt
with ever increasing momentum.

But you can only bleed so much before you run
dry and emaciated your mind slowly puts that
red inked pen down, you bled enough on the page.

But now the thoughts have died, your wanting
to bury this that was ill conceived. Truths that
your mind thanks but your eyes cant handle truth.