I keep it short

not always sweet but short

so whats been going down lately.

um, I think im slipping

on that note, heres a little something I wrote for english. I've been meaning to put it in here for awhile now.

read it, its bloody.

Ironically on what is to be the blackest day of this year, the sun shines, illuminating the platform I rest upon. My metal blade gleams, a beam reflects into the eyes of those gathering for today�s bloodshed, blinding them. For a instant, their eyes taste the eternity my victims are destined to, blinding darkness.

The air around me reeks with the smell of death, of blood, and of hatred. It is an overwhelmingly strong smell, it knocks some to their feet, other; who have chosen not to attend, vomit at the mere thought of it.

I am disturbed by what I am built to do, I take lives for a living--I take the old, the young, the rich, the poor. The deserving and the undeserving loose their life on my wood--guilty as well innocent blood is taken by my blade. Don�t think for an instant I am proud of what I do--don�t think I enjoy it. A cloud of regret consumes me, it gets thicker as the massacre continues. Each day a new victim, several victims in fact. Some plead, many fight--others struggle, but once contained, they all face the same fate.

This morning, the air is heavy with impending doom. A peasant approaches, she is young, fair skinned and blistered from her time spend in the field. Slowly she steps toward me, as many have done before her, she gently places her head upon me, beneath the blade, on top my blood soaked wood. There is no fight. I hear faint prayers coming from her chapped lips. All too soon the stairs behind me creak as a man covered in black approaches. He is the man that controls my actions. With one swift pull, and a seconds long drop the deed is done--he has used me to end yet another life.

The crowd that has gathered rejoices, they feel no remorse, they feel nothing for this innocent women. I cringe, disgusted with my actions, disgusted with the crowd around me. This is the daily routine, it has been for weeks. I murder, they cheer, and we repeat. From sun up till sun down I am used; by sundown I am surrounded by a vile lake of crimson. As darkness falls I am left to absorb the remnants of human life, what I haven�t the capacity to absorb sits, adding to the smell.

As the days pass my wood becomes encrusted with innocent blood, it turns from brown to black, and begins to crumble at the edges. I fear it can not withstand much more. The massacre that takes place is evident not only by the stains in my wood- but by the grass beneath me. Just as those who once stepped upon it, it has begun to die off, drowned by death.

I am swift death, I am referred to as a painless alternative; painless for whom? My victim--Whose life is ripped from them all too soon? Or painless for me?

I, the guillotine, despise myself.

I the guillotine, suffer in silence.