She paints a pretty picture
but this picture has a twist
you see.. her paintbrush is a razor
and her canvas is her wrist
she paints her pretty picture
in a color thats blood red
while using her sharp painbrush
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 just her wrist
* this poem is pretty famous. just thought id put it on here. describes how i feel*
