The picture
She paints a pretty picture
But this one with a twist,
The paint brush a razor and the canvas her wrist.
She paints a pretty picture
The color of bleeding flesh
Driven by the idea of a moment for her mind to rest.
While using her paintbrush
Her picture is complete
Her fighting soul has finally been beat.
The picture finally fades
The blood no longer racing
And her anxious feet no longer pacing.
She painted a pretty picture
But this one with a twist
You see her pen was the razor and her paper the wrist.
Word after word, line after line
Bleeding out her life
Into simple and choppy rhyme.
A choice made easy
A poem or her life
To end the horrid flashbacks and or pull out the knife.