She’s an artist, Painting every night.
But her works are never kept in sight.
She’s alone, sad and scared.
A girl, whose parents are dead.
She cries out, but no one hears.
They never see, they don’t even care.
The kids at school, they’re too cool.
To talk to someone, who doesn’t have her own pool.
So she paints, but there’s a twist.
You see her canvas is her wrist.
The paint is her own blood.
And the brush is her blade.
And now, her wrists are stained red.
But she’s happy, because now, she’s finally dead.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryJust some poems that I wrote. They're from my heart and I thought that someone should see them.
