I wrote this just now. It's one of the crappiest poems i've ever written but it expresses my feelings.
Fingertips like glass shards against my skin,
tracing invisible scars,
the blue moon outside my window
a phantom observer
who offers neither admonishment nor praise.
If blood is blue until it touches air,
why is red the color of violence?
Is blue the hue of the solitary poet,
the remorseful saxophonist,
the wretched and the subdued,
or the color of aggression,
masked by fond caresses of flesh?
bed sheets stained by blood.
Red is the color of shame,