Blood at the tip,

red it drips,

drips, drips, still blood at its tip.

Puddling on the floor,

pain so deep it has hit the core,

yet I do I know what for.

I'm trapped in this box,

hanging before me is a lock.

Slient screams leave my mouth,

yet in my mind they are so loud. 

I bang and holler,

though the box gets smaller and smaller. 

Air leaves, and I can no longer breath.

Insanity, its blinding, and darkenss is what I see.

I lose hope, I just want to be free.

But, death, oh death, it has a fee.

So costly is my life, but can I do the deed?

I pray and I pray I know love is my key.

Yet, it is on the very tip, 

of the finger I so pricked, 

and there it goes drip, drip, drip. 

Where does it bleed, where does it go?

My simple reply is, "no body knows?"