~Not My Poem~
She paints a pretty picture but the story has a twist. Her paintbrush was a razor and her canvas was her wrist.
She paints a pretty picture in a color that’s blood red. While using her sharp paintbrush she finally ends up dead.
The pretty picture is fading quite slowly on her arm.
Blood no longer runs through her, she can no longer do harm.
Yes, she painted a pretty picture but the story has a twist,
you see, her mind was her razor, and her heart was her wrist.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Of Emotions
PoetryA few pieces of poetry rushing through my head, The words, they might stumble, but who would be listening? Peace doesn't exist Neither does hope. You can't bring it back, But find it for you. Love, smile, laugh. Cry, scream, die, Find your exit, Eve...
