She loves to paint,
And paint she did,
But a razor was her paintbrush,
And the canvas was her skin.
People frowned on her pieces;
The scars that remained.
Yet she never ceases,
Painting until her arms are stained.
Of her, friends grew tired,
Your art is too much, they said.
She became inspired,
A masterpiece appearing in her head.
She began to paint again,
Letters etched into her wrist.
She looked at it with a grin,
Then the doorknob began to twist.
Her ever present frown faded,
A smile took its place.
As they were being traded,
The color drowned from her face.
The door flew open,
But she didn't care,
The person had spoken,
But she didn't hear.
Her frail body fell,
Lying still on her bed,
She had a story to tell,
But it was only in her wrist that said:
You may have never noticed me,
But I just needed to be free.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryA collection of poems I've written to express myself. All of these are 100% original, and if I have copied anything, I am completely unaware of it, so feel free to let me know. It should be mentioned that all of these poems are depressing, and some...
