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I thought I had enough,
enough blood to last.
But as it turns out,
I was mistaken.
I had a notion,
I had a thought,
maybe I had love...

Not enough to last.
No more blood to spill,
for my heart is empty.
No more blood.

And now the
only things
that are left
are memories
of a full heart,
a heart full,
full of blood.

Not enough to last.
No more blood to spill,
for my heart is empty.
No more blood...


Writer's notes: I found an old notebook of mine in which I wrote poems and essays---some theological, some cynical, and some depressing. This one is a poem, I think, and provoked troubling thoughts. I believe I was going through some rough times when I wrote this blood soaked poem (which could be a song, since that realm is also an interest of mine). I might share more from that notebook, if this isn't too much of a chore to read. I hope you enjoyed it! (I don't know what sort of a person you need to be or what goes on in your life to enjoy these words in their quiet, yet disturbing, rage.)

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