Drip.
I Stare Down At The Ground.
Drip.
My Eyes Are Tempted To Drift Towards You,
But I Know Better.
Drip.
My Eyes Jump To The Loud Noise,
In This Silent Room.
Drip.
I Stand Silently, Walking Towards The Noise.
DRIP.
I Spin Around- Only To See You,
Hanging From The Rafters,
Motionless.
I Shut My Eyes,
My Head Screaming To Pull You Down And Scream Until You Wake,
But I Know It Shall Never Work.
Drip.
You Have Perished,
A Silent Tear Making It's Way Down My Face.
Drip.
I Fall To The Ground, Crying Softly,
You Claimed You Where Okay,
Not That I Should Have Cared For My Kidnapper.
Drip.
Or My ******.
But What Can I Say,
It's A Case Of Being A Misanthrope.
I Love Him.
I Love Him.
I Love Him.
Your So **** Selfish.
Waiting Till I Loved You With All My Heart,
To End It All.
I'll Never Forget,
My Case Of Being A Misanthrope.
Drip.*
~ Kat Herondale.

Foresee the dance of the drunk pen,
On a white forgotten page,
And as the Indian ink has left its charm,
Through poetic swords of faith.
No, she said, to the young heart,
A sad dilemma song,
Drunk with broken words,
He bleed the crusade all along.
The blood has been painted,
Over the pages of art laid thorns,
As number he grew, he faded
Into the delusional walks and pavement songs.
The floors were carpeted red,
Like a heartbreak prom in lights,
While I laid drunk with my thoughts,
Like the dark soul of Broadway nights.
The black colour embracing,
Sweet sadistic vines of hope,
In the illest of fate, my heart sings
Like a mysterious misanthrope.