A Pretty Picture (Poem)

A Pretty Picture

He paints a pretty picture

But the story has a twist

His paintbrush is his razor

And his canvas is his wrist

He paints a pretty picture

In a colour that's blood red

While using his sharp paintbrush

He ends up finally dead

His pretty pictures fading

Quite slowly on his arm

Blood is not racing through him

He can no longer do harm

He painted his pretty picture

But the story had a twist

You see his mind was his razor

And his heart was his wrist