She paints a pretty picture
But the story has a twist
Her paint brush is a razor
And her canvas is her wrist.
She paints her pretty picture
In a color that's blood red
While using her sharp paint brush
She ends up finally dead.
Her pretty pictures fading
Quite slowly on her arm
The blood is not racing through her
She can no longer do harm.
She painted her pretty picture
But her picture had a twist
Her mind was her razor
And her heart was her wrist.
-unknown
(Sorry I know this is in like, every other book like this but I just really love it)
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What It Feels Like
PoetryA collection of stories, notes, quotes, poems and other tidbits of emotions. Send your own work I'd love to add it to my collection--and give you credit of course!
