She paints a pretty picture,
but her story has a twist.
Her paintbrush is a razor,
and her canvas is her wrist.
She paints a pretty picture,
in a color that's blood red,
while using her sharp
paintbrush,
she finally ends up dead.
Her pretty picture's fading,
quite slowly on her arm,
her blood isnt flowing
through her,
she can no longer do harm.
She painted her pretty
picture,
but her picture had a twist,
you see her mind was her
razor,
and her heart
was her wrist.
YOU ARE READING
Let downs of Life
PoetryNot all of these poems will be mine. i will label them as original if they are mine. The title basicly speaks for itself.
