Blood is but ink,

With tears as a well,

A blade is a pen,

But life is a hell.

With each lengthened scratch,

Her deep quickened pace,

She's writing her words,

Yet losing her space.

Losing her muse,

And losing her rhyme,

With each hurried word,

She's further from fine.

The words slowly flow,

Pouring and free,

The hell is subsiding,

And leaving her be.

The pace is now fading,

The ink is no more,

Tears are subsiding,

With a blade on the floor.