She paints a pretty picture.
But the story has a twist.
Her paint brush 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 finally dead.
Her pretty pictures fading.
Quite slowly on her arm.
The blood is not racing through her.
She can no longer do harm.
She painted her pretty picture.
But her picture had a twist.
You see her mind was the razor.
And her heart was her wrist.
YOU ARE READING
Silent Tears
PoesiaHey.. ヾ(＾∇＾) I DO NOT promote mental illnesses. This was simply made for expression of my feelings. If you don't like it, then don't read it. (: I DO NOT take credit for any of these. Thank you. xx Completed: January 13, 2017
