Option 2 Poem by alan pieterse

A warm crimson tide,
like a faithful puppy
follows the gleaming blade
as it parts the soft skin.
Pliant and unyielding,
it lets out life.

Rivulets of red cascade down,
forming rorsach inkblots
on pristine white tiles.
I watch, as my blood drain,
this is it, the final cut, ,
i feel no pain.

The blade, now lying forgotten
on the basin, a relic of a life
almost past.

The poison released,
the anger decreased,
I - deceased.