My paintbrush is a razor,
Sharp and fine,
My wrist is my canvas,
With my paintbrush,
I make a straight, red, line,
The paint drips,
And falls to the floor,
I cant stand their harsh words,
Anymore,
My addiction for painting,
Has gotten worse and worse,
I have a blank stare,
As I wish I was in the back of a hearse,
My body is my canvas,
That I always destroy,
All because of,
The words that annoy...
