MDMH89

Does this blood
on ones hands
really dry?

I don't think
so.

For hearts still
weigh heavy
in my embrace.

They beat to
the rhythm of
the drums.
The drums of
the front-line
sort,
that beat straight
into the crossfire of
my personal
civil war.

Little drummer
girl...
Little drummer
girl,
be your blood
of the
merciful sort
would it
not dry
and flake off
my hands
like snow?
The children
could then
make snowballs
and throw
them at one another
for the sport
hidden in this
red Christmas.
It would
smear on
their faces
and the pain
wouldn't be my
cold burden
to bare.

I don't make
much of a
Jesus so
take this
crimson from
my hands
and feet.
Give it to
the children
for another
holiday,
because I'm
not much
of a savior.
Trust me...

I've torn to
many hearts
from the
chests of countless
like you, through
the back.

Oh drummer girl...
Oh drummer
girl.

Your heart
and what
it spills into
my hands and
onto my feet
is not merciful.
I wash it in
the sink
and the drain
only grows.
Like the holes
in the chests
of those I
have stolen from.
It all swells
beyond me
and the blood
remains wet
as well as
present...

It does not
dry.
It steams
and boils with
anger.
Only creating
more holes.

They say this
is stigmata.
I say again:
I am no Jesus!
I am no
savior...
I can not
die for the
sins I create,
though I
would like to
because I am
of the selfish
sort.

Drummer girl,
dearest drummer
girl.
The mercy I
don't deserve,
I beg for;
on my knees
with cavities
in my hands
and feet.

I guess
this is
fate catching
up to me;
right?

Dare I ask
if it's wrong
to plead for
what it is
I do not
deserve?
For what
I do deserve
only brings
me to this
conclusion:

I can not
be a savior
to only save
myself.
Let me
collapse, then
the red shall
dry when the
sun hits it.
It will flake
on this battle
field and the
children won't
have to make
balls of red
snow...
But instead
just throw
the hearts
I've killed,
more appropriately,
murdered,
that dry with
me.

I'm no Jesus Christ!
I'm no savior!
Little drummer
girl...
Oh little
drummer girl.

END