I am an artist. My body is full of paint. I dip my brush in and begin to paint. My sweat and tears mix and sting, but I continue to paint. My whole body shakes but I do not quit. My silent tears turn into whimpers, whimpers into cries. I paint harder, faster, until my canvas is covered. Then I wash, and cover my canvas. My painting never to be shown to the harsh world. I bring my brush everywhere. I paint when I'm sad, when I'm angry, when I grow numb. But there's a catch, For my brush becomes a razor, or a pair of scissors. My blood the paint, and my wrist, the canvas. One of these days, my paintings will not be covered. I will be left in a heap for the whole world to see. For it's the tortured artist, who puts her blood and tears into her paintings, that is the one who is driven to the end...
