Untitled Poem III

As I was emptying my pencil case (to fit it in my brand new bunch of awesome coloured pens), I found this crumpled paper at the bottom. It was a poem I wrote from God-knows-when. Here it is: 

Fresh blood trickled down her wrists,
dripping down in monotony.
Her parchment skin scarred and creased
as tears flowed down in synchrony  

A pity, really – the girl who was always smiling. 
She bled just to know she was alive;
she had rather feel pain than nothing,
as she stored all memories in archives.

I realize that the second stanza isn’t really good, (call me big headed) but I like the first stanza of this poem of mine and I’m pretty proud of it! 



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