She paints a pretty picture,
But the story has a twist,
Her paint brush is a razor,
And her canvas is her wrist,
She paints her pretty picture,
In a colour thats blood red,
While using her sharp paintbrush,
She ends up finally dead,
Her pretty pictures fading,
Quite slowly on her arm,
The bloods not racing through her,
She can no longer do harm,
She painted her pretty picture,
But the story had a twist,
You see her mind was her razor
And her heart was her wrist...
YOU ARE READING
Quotes
PoetryAnd if you don't Like me, as I do you; I understand. Because who would Really choose A daisy, in a field Of roses?
