My Wrists are my Blank Canvas

My wrists are my blank canvas,

awaiting to be painted.

Yet unlike those of a new-borns,

They refrain from being untainted.

My urge to paint consumes me,

Like a rabid dog conformed to kill.

I wish to paint and paint and paint,

Till my life bleeds out at my will.

The tool to paint is no matter,

It's for no-one else's eyes.

If I paint until they paint dries up,

will I bother with goodbyes?

Will people much sorrow,

if I paint till I'm no more?

Will people finally notice me,

like they never did before?

If the only way to let them know

the need to pain consumes me,

is to paint until the paint runs out,

then a filled canvas I shall be.