Sinner

“Winter’s come early this year. Like a bird in the rain I’ve tortured my everything.”
                                  ~Dead Poetic


~Sinner~

I have blood on my hands.
I have ways of making you cry.
I have ways of hurting you.
I have ways of being sly.

I am the tax collector.
I am the doubter.
I am the one who throws the first stone.
I am dead and alive.

Why have I been chosen?
Why have I been loved?
What have I done to deserve this?
I guess someone is bigger than I know.

But I have blood on my hands.
I have doubts and wonder why.
But I have blood on my hands.
I have a winter tainted by the red.

What have I done to deserve grace?
I have done nothing.
What have I done to deserve forgiveness?
Nothing for I have blood on my hands.

I look forward and remember the past.
I embrace my hope on the other side.
I was chosen and I accept.
This winter is not my blood anymore.

I have blood on my hands
But I have a way to wash them clean.
I have blood over me.
But this blood forgives me.

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