She paints a pretty picture,
But the story has a twist,
Her paintbrush 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 paintbrush,
She ends up dead,
Her pretty picture,
Fading quite quickly on her arm,
The blood is not racing through her,
She can no longer do harm,
She painted a pretty picture,
But her picture had a twist,
You see.. Her mind was the razor,
And her heart was her wrist
YOU ARE READING
My Dark Poems
PoetryTitle says it all. - They are not all dark, either. - And there is a few scary stories I found. Note: None of this is like, personal, or true, I convert my anger and depression into these poems. Some have meaning, others don't. Also there is a slig...
