The Blood From My Pen

I write with the blood, that drips from my pen.
I change this white paper, to crimson red.
The blood speaks louder, more than any ink can
And that's why I write, with the blood from my pen.
Every drop of blood, holds a thousand lies.
As it splashes on the page, another dream dies.
With every excess drop, hope falls apart.
This blood I write with, comes right from my heart.
A drop for every lie, every promise broke in two.
Everything I've ever said, and everything thing I do.
A simple drop whispers, but you listen with your eyes.
because this blood colored ink, can never tell a lie.
It doesn't have to spell words, you can feel what's inside.
You can feel my pain and sorrow, so many times I've died.
Writing with this ink, still seems to make me grin.
Don't have to try so hard, or cover up any sins.
I grip the end of my rope, which is dripping red.
I'm not waiting for my grave now, cause I'm already dead.
So as I write with the blood that drips from my pen.
I give it all away, I refuse to wait for the end.