Poetry Blog by Kianna

Shards of Broken Glass lie on the floor those of which used to be the remains of a glass vase. Drops of blood seeping into the wooden floor with those same drops of blood I watch as they soak into the white painted walls. I stand there watching as you struggle to soak up the red substance known as blood with a towel. As I lay there I wonder how could he believe her? A heated argument turned sour i...

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