She paints a pretty picture
There upon her hand
What they don’t know is that she can’t sleep at night
This is the only way she can
No it’s not blood
No they’re not gory
But what people don’t know
Is that all of the pretty pictures tell a story
Being alone
Too alone
She doesn’t want to die
Not being known
No one likes her
But the pictures on her hand
The people who like her for her
Are the ones who understand
Sharpie out
Flowers swirl out of all kind
Not a ray of doubt
But a picture in her mind
Some don’t work
That’s ok
Whatever ends up on her hand
Will only be there for the day
I paint a pretty picture
A sharpie in my hand
Today is a different design
At least I know I can
Yes, I did draw that on my hand (have been doing on my arms/hands a lot lately) and am proud of it. This poem is kind of how I feel when draw. Thanks for reading!
