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 colour that's blood red
While using her sharp paint brush
She ends up fianlly 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
You see her mind was her razor
And her heart was her wrist.
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This is not my poem, I found it online. This poem represents how a lot of people feel, how I feel sometimes. Just know that even though times are rough, someone is there for you. And if in any case you are seeking for a shoulder to cry on, and friend to talk to, I'm here for you. I may not know you and you may not know me, but I know that this pain is the worst of all. The mind thinking of dark thoughts, the tears rolling down the thought of you being alone in this world. Message me if anything, and I'll be there.
