She can draw a pretty picture
She'll draw it with a twist
Her paintbrush is a razor
And the canvas is her wrist
She paints a pretty picture
In a colour that's blood red
While using her sharp paintbrush
She'll finally end up dead
Her pretty pictures fading
Quite slowly on her arm
Bloods not racing through her
She no longer can do harm
She painted her pretty pictures
But her story has a twist
You see her mind was a razor
And her heart was the wrist
YOU ARE READING
The dark abyss that is my mind: part one
PoetryDo you know that feeling? Nothing matters, nobody cares, life has no meaning. That feeling that you want to just give up? That all you do is use up space and annoy people? That everybody is better off without you? That's me everyday. Every single da...
