The perfect painter, oh so smart.
Could paint a picture, of her heart.
Although this heart, it seemed so sweet,
innocent, and complete,
inside was different,
shattered and broken,
from all the pressure, she had taken,
and this painter, sweet and kind,
broke one day, only to find,
that a razor, was her paintbrush,
and her canvas, was her wrist.
Now this painter,
sad and blue,
saw that her paintings, proved to be true,
they showed a girl,
beautiful as can be,
playing guitar under a tree,
now this girl, she was strong,
she turned her sorrow into song,
she had a friend, who sat beside her,
sharing secrets, by a fire,
this girl had secrets, her friend did too,
they both had things that no one knew,
they held in their hand, their story to tell,
but pretended all was well,
everyone, everywhere, has a story they do not share,
if you hear one being told,
think of yours, what you hold,
deep inside you, hiding behind,
all the smiles and the lies,
now imagine, in a world,
where these stories were to be told,
a place with no secrets kept,
this is a place all can accept.
a place of peace,
frozen in time,
where the past becomes the past,
and who we are can shine.
