Bucket of BloodA Poem by Kat Mandu
Face cold, eyes red,
A bucket of blood poured over my head. Drenched in retribution. The inhibitions of a time forgotten The ambitions of a person, rotten. To the core. He picks up his pen; His ink is his weapon Which many will die upon. Flick through the thin pages, Read a word or two, See the prophet who never ages, Even after he is run through. A spear, so sharp, Now he is dead. Grab a bucket of blood, pour it over my head. Wet with scarlet fluid, I walk onwards. People watch, Buckets hover above their heads, Waiting to fall, Should it be said. Unbeliever, heathen, witch, Deceiver, god-fearing, b***h. A woman weeps and points at me; How can she look right through and see? See my doubtful, bleeding heart, Dying before I even start. A false existence, My warrant is read. The bucket of blood falls onto my head. Footprints the colour of poppies. Controversy in a flower, While those who hold the power cower. Fifty points struck off the board, A bad beginning, But I won't bow to your lord. I won't ask for help and luck, I don't want a Narcissus who gives no f**k. I want to make my greatness, And I won't apologise for its lateness. I am doomed, One of the fateless. So without a destiny I run, Alone and into the night. I will brave my fears with all my might. And when all is done, And all is said, The bucket of blood pours over my head. All the promises I met, Now the faithless fool lays down to rest, Never knowing what is best. The blood drips from my body, Awake and alive. The bucket is empty, I live, not survive. © 2016 Kat ManduFeatured Review
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1 Review Added on December 22, 2016 Last Updated on December 22, 2016 Tags: bucket, of, blood, pain, people, hannah lindsey, partialpoet, red, human, weapon Author
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