She paints a pretty picture,
But this story has a twist.
Her razor is the paintbrush
And her canvas is her wrist.
She paints a pretty picture,
In a colour that's blood red.
While using her sharp paintbrush,
She ends up finally dead.
Pretty picture's 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 story had a twist.
You see her mind was her razor,
And her heart was her wrist.
YOU ARE READING
What's Depression Like?
PoesíaHey guys! I have a new book based on what I go through: DEPRESSION. This is just to help people.❤️
