She paints a pretty picture,
But the story has a twist.
Her paintbrush is a razor,
And her canvas is her wrist.
She paints her pretty picture,
In a color that's blood red.
While using her sharp paintbrush,
She ends up finally dead.
Her 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 picture had a twist.
You see, her mind was her razor,
And her heart was her wrist.
~Anonymous~
YOU ARE READING
Sad Poems
Poetrya variety of losses, regrets, and depression wrapped into a mess of a poem book started: 04.29.15 completed: 06.24.19 a book that has existed almost as long as I have on here. thank you for giving my story a chance (my apologies if some are really c...
