My hands are tied,
At the back of the chair,
Locked around my arms is a rope,
As I try to break free,
The roop cuts my wrists,
Blood that falls on the floor,
Makes me wince,
I carefully withdraw a knife,
Which was already in my pocket,
I take it out and I find out,
It was a butter knife.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
My hands are tied,
At the back of the chair,
Locked around my arms is a rope,
As I try to break free,
The roop cuts my wrists,
Blood that falls on the floor,
Makes me wince,
I carefully withdraw a knife,
Which was already in my pocket,
I take it out and I find out,
It was a butter knife.
