Mirror mirror, on the wall
Tell me how the fallen, fall?

Well now, come now, let me show
All the pain I've ever known...

Mark my words, I marked my skin
Thin red lines of crimson sin

Seeping through their open wounds
The more I made, like blossom, blooms...

So I was hollow, devoid of all
I am how the fallen, fall

Mirror, mirror, just a mask
All they'll see is shattered glass...

poetry
is emotion.
its just
a sputtering stream of how our mouths process it.
sometimes
its little drips
of crimson blood,
drawing lines from our lips to our hearts.
others,
its a projectile scream;
something we can stop or close our mouths to.
it affects other people,
splatters of my blood on her shirt
or
my scream shattering her eardrums
but
now she has crimson to spill
and it trickles down her lips.

Red is the colour of blood and passion
Raw enchanting, ruthless, cuts and colours deep

Simple interests
Complex values, evaluation
Desired profits
Loss of interests
Principal principles lost

Many colours in life
Not all chosen by you
Some you dabble with
Give you permanent stains and crimson tears

One more time, one more time.
I’ll just do this one more time.
One last time and I’ll be fine.
I’ll just do this one more time.

One more time, one more time,
The crimson red is such a beautiful sight.
One more time and I’ll be fine.
Let me just do this one more time.

One more time, one more time.
The silvery gleam greets me once again.
One last time, I’ll be fine.
I’ll just do this one more time.

One more time, one more time,
Fresh roses are piling around me.
Is that you? Cruel angel of the world?

Take me away, one last time.

red roses
and tulips
petals
in your hair
lips
on mine
a day
like this
something
in the air
fingers
on my waist
sweet
cherry taste
this love
of mine
bound
by crimson twine
blood drips
from tiny ******
sharp thorns
with ruby tips

"I am trying to hold on. Even to the silliest and littlest of things. Even if it’s temporary. But there isn’t anything in my reach. Just grasping darkness. Nothingness. I am trying to tell you, my cry for help is soft almost as a breeze. Through little hints, please try to see. But it is going by un-noticed. There is no one to save me. Nothing to hold. I am slipping. I feel myself letting go. There is no tug from the heart that attachments were once etched to. I feel myself letting go of the thin life line I hold. Letting my life go as the tears that leave my eye and the crimson blood that spills from my skin. I slip, as I slip into sleep.”