Drink Of Crimson Poem by Crimson Love

My knife rests at my side,
Parched and dry,
Ready for the drink I shall bestow,
I'm all knowing, I know it knows,
I contemplate in my head,
whether this desicion is wrong,
but all I can hear are screams saying its right.

With a confused hand, I grab for the blade,
With a finger I stroke the edge,
barely touching, yet deep is the cut,
small spurts of crimson engorge the blade,
It's had a taste, and now is ready for more.

the razor now rests in my all knowing palms,
ready for its sweet and well deserved drink,
its inanimate.....yet this razor can talk,
It whispers are horrifying, bloodier than my thoughts,
It's ready to drink from my so very willing veins,
I place the razor just above my wrist,
Shall I paint you a picture, I can give it a twist?
Slowly slit, my unforgiving wrists.

Crimson Gushes from these now open scars,
the blade lapping at the massacre,
Its now had its fill, now I shall put my razor upon its throne,
always the king, I bow in my crimson,
a humble servant to my blood thirsty king,
until regicide I do commit,
he shall remain upon his Crimson Throne.