• A fine black ink pen
    Smoothly writes on its canvas,
    Writing sad stories on the ten
    Murders that would happen on campus.

    Like the first stroke of a brush
    The pen glides with the ink
    And the emotions of rush;
    Then it turns a dark shade of pink.

    It keeps on writing in that pink scroll,
    But wait...
    The beatings take its toll,
    The coloring darkens to hate.

    Blood is the story.
    Blood is what they shout.
    Blood is that which spills.
    Blood runs out.