A poem for death

With a twist

She can draw a pretty picture,

She'll draw it with a twist.

Her paintbrush is a razor,

Her canvas is her wrist.

She paints her pretty picture,

In a color that's blood red.

While using her sharp paintbrush,

She finally ends up dead.

Her pretty pictures fading,

Quite slowly on her arm.

Bloods not racing through her,

She no longer can do harm.

She painted her pretty picture,

But her story had a twist.

You see her mind was a razor,

And her heart was her wrist