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 paintbrush
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 no harm
She paints her pretty picture
But her picture has a twist
You see her mind was the razor
And her heart was her wrist
YOU ARE READING
Love the pain
PoetryThe darkness is always there. You just never notice it's there until you can see it, read it, feel it.
