There's a picture on my arm,
There's a picture on my wrist.
Another on my leg,
But none on my fist.
With my silver paintbrush,
I twirl and I twist,
The paint a pretty red,
So beautiful a colour one that should be kissed.
The canvas is so ugly,
So on it I draw,
Doesn't really matter when no one likes you anymore.
YOU ARE READING
A lost girl's poetry.
PoesíaPoems I've written about love, life, depression and everything in between.
