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 lovely 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 harm
She paints her lovely picture
But this story has a twist
You see, her mind was a razor
And her heart was her wrist
~This is NOT my poem. Don't take this against me! ;)~
YOU ARE READING
They will be discovered
PoetryHarming isn't childish it isn't a phase it is real life And if someone doesn't realize that well, joke's on them because unless someone realizes that people do harm for a real reason it will just keep happening I want to be that person who realizes...