I knew a boy who liked to draw,
He drew pictures that nobody saw...
He can paint a lovely picture,
But the story has a twist...
His paintbrush was a knife,
And his canvas was his wrist...
He was most artistic late at night,
In the bathroom out of sight...
With his knife as a bursh,
And his blood as his paint..
His pretty pictures,
At night which makes him faint..
He kept a secret that no one knew,
He never told a soul and his gallery grew..
His drawings were different, no paper no pen,
But needed a bandage now and again...
Not in a wall, not in a canvas and not in paper,
But on his bare skin, his scars became greater in number..
We sat by the river, under the stars,
He rolled up his sleeves and showed me his scars...
They were long and bloody, like a cats scratch mark accross his hands,
As the scars were daily planned...
He felt embarrased and looked at his shoe,
I rolled up my sleeves and whispered, 'I draw too"...
YOU ARE READING
POEMS I a Collection I✔️
PoesiaThis book , is a collection of poems I have made for a portion of my life. It's made with effort, that caused me my life to make. I enjoyed making this, so I hope you enjoy reading this too. Thank you<3
