Drawing

I am an artist, my blade is a pen. I draw on my wrists, again and again. I'm most artistic late at night, in my bedroom and out of sight. I like to draw pictures that no one will see, I try to hide them to a certain degree. My drawing is an addiction that is caused by great affliction. My gallery grows, and yet not a soul knows. As I draw and I draw I watch the blood pour. And then my artwork is completed, my life now defeated. I was an artist, my blade was a pen. I drew on my wrists, again and again. Would things have got better, like everyone said? Or were they just lies they put in my head?