This is my own version of a poem I read. The words for this are all mine, accept a few lines which are from the original poem :)
A Pretty Picture
She paints a pretty picture,
But her painting has a twist,
Her paintbrush is a razor,
And her canvas is her wrist.
She paints a pretty picture,
But her canvas is her wrist,
She paints the words they say to her,
Words she's never missed.
She pains a pretty picture,
But her canvas is her wrist,
She hides it from those praying eyes,
Using her sleeves as a deep mist.
She paints a pretty picture,
But her canvas is her wrist,
What would her mother do,
To see the pain she's going through?
She paints a pretty picture,
But her canvas is her wrist,
Her work is like a work of art,
Never to be completed.
She painted a pretty picture,
But her canvas was her wrist,
One day her canvas became too full,
So she panicked and ended it all.
Now they all see her pretty picture,
They see it sprawled across her wrists,
The words they used to say to her,
All painted out in red,
The words they used to murder her,
It's their fault she is dead.
YOU ARE READING
To Be Depressed
Literatura Faktu"If you think about being happy, you'll be happy." "Don't be so pessimistic!" "Everyone else can get through it, why can't you?" "Attention seeker!" You trying feeling like this then, if it's so easy... This is just my views on depression, a "taboo"...
