He paints a pretty picture
But the story has a twist
His paintbrush is a 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 picture is fading
Quite slowly on his arm
The blood is now racing through him
He can no longer do harm
He painted a pretty picture
But his picture has a twist
You see his mind was his razor
And his heart was his wrist
(The original poem was a girl but since I'm a guy..)
YOU ARE READING
In My Head
PoezieHi this is just a collection my personal thoughts. Most stuff is depressing cause that's how I am :")
