She can paint a lovely picture
But this story has a twist
Her paintbrush is a razor
And her canvas is her wrist
She paints her pretty picture
In a colour that's blood red
While using her sharp paint brush
She ends up finally dead
Her pretty picture fading
Quite slowly on her arm
The blood is not racing through her
She can no longer do harm
She paints her pretty picture
But her picture has a twist
You see her mind was a razor
And her heart was her wrist.
(not my poem)
YOU ARE READING
They will be missed
PoetrySome die Some starve Some cry Most cut And they will be missed Some are alone Some are lost in a crowd Some yell out and moan Most do not voice their troubles aloud And they will be missed #1 Poetry #2 Random
