I was young,
I was at the park with my ignorant babysitter,
when I stumbled upon a kitchen knife,
presumably left over from the picnics that are rife.
I carried it over to a picnic table,
and made ridges and cracks with the sable-handed knife.
But I was sweating, my palms were sweating,
and soon I was also bloodletting.
My eyes became teary from shock.
I was in a complete stage of deadlock.
From my hand, blood painted my arm with red, glistening snakes,
but I was all adrenaline and no aches.
After a few, the blood had clotted,
but my clothes were blood-spotted.
Did I learn my lesson?