Their doodles

(This poem is free to be interpretet ass wished thought I'll add that this is a poem about not wanting to change but still doing it against the own will)

There was a puddle of blood on my desk once,

It is now scrapes of a brown rusty solid something that is covering where there used to be doodles on the desk, 

they are still there 

I tell myselfe, the drawings, they couldn't just vanish, 

But they were out of pencil

They disapeared once blood fell on them

But maybe they've been preserved and if a scratch the blood off they'll vanish aswell

I can't do that they are there, she wouod scream if they'd be no more,

Standing there for hours instead of doing whatever was expectet to be done, I wouldn't like it if my work dissapeared, she might never come back again of she sees that the doodles are gone,

There used to be flies, they came long before blood was there 

I wondered why, 

She didn't like flies, I wonder if she would be disgusted knowing that flies have sat on her blood,

She git used to it , not apreciating it but lived amongst them

I took a fly pallet to catch them, to finish what she coudln't, 

But if I'd kill the flies I'd have more reason to keep the once puddle of blood and the doodles underneath.

I scratched what was left and redrew the doodles, but they weren't the same as hers

I wasn't the same 

Blessing is a disguise, accept the changing of the seasons or they will change you