She paints a pretty picture, 
But this picture has a twist,
You see.. Her paintbrush is the razor, 
And her canvas is her wrist.
She paints her pretty picture, 
... In a color thats blood red, 
While using her sharp paintbrush, 
She finally ends up dead. 
Her pretty pictures fading, 
Quite slowly on her arm. 
The blood is not racing through her, 
She can no longer do harm. 
She painted a pretty picture, 
But her picture had a twist, 
You see her mind was the razor-And her heart was her wrist. . .
I enjoy mysterious books. I like poetry and shakespear.