The pumpkin’s soft outer shell holds strong,
When the blade comes in.
I slice away at his flesh,
His orange blood drips slowly to the ground,
As I rip his head straight off,
And create an opening.

My hands pull away at his insides,
Until he is bare and hollow.
The pain is not over though,
As I thrust the blade once again into his skin,
And carve little holes,
And a mouth.

Now he looks happy,
With a big smiley face.
But inside,
He is just about dead.
As his orange blood continues to trickle,
The pumpkin regrets ever being grown.

Many people do not think about the pumpkin,
As they carve him to death on Halloween night,
But just remember,
How you would feel,
If their was a blade cutting you to pieces,
For someone else's pleasure.