She paints a beautiful picture
She'll create it with a horrible twist
Cause you see her paintbush is a razor
And her wrists are her canvas
She paints her beaitiful canvas
With colors as dark as her blood
Her sharp paintbrush creates this twist
As the blood runs down her wrists
Her heart finally quits
And her pretty picture begins to fade
As the blood drips down her arms
She can no longer do harm
She painted this pretty picture
But it also had a twist
Her mind was a razor
And her heart was her wrist
YOU ARE READING
The tears I cry
PoetrySociety is a nasty little queen. This is a book of poetry I've written most of this is deep and dark.
