He wants to be an artist so he takes out his brush. He takes out his canvas and paints a picture. He doesn't need paint , for his brush is his knife and his canvas is his wrist. As the blade slashes his wrist , the paint drips down. But the paint is his blood. He knows hurting himself won't help his pain , yet he continues on. Afterwards he cleans up the mess and acts like nothing ever happened , but inside he knows they are not cat scratches. Everyone tells him he looks fine though , that he's the happiest person they ever met. Yet they don't realize , that the happiest people can be the most damaged. After a long day at school , he goes home takes out his knife and paints his finale picture. Like a faucet dripping blood. He feels like he can't go on any longer , like the demons have won the fight. He cuts too deep. The blood flowing from his wrist to the floor. He closes his eyes for the last time. He smiles , and falls asleep. "Why him?" Well you always pick the most beautiful of flowers.

This is a message to everyone who is suicidal or selfharms. Stop. Please. It doesnt solve anything you need to keep going through your life because it will get better. you just have to make it better. -Ash

This poem is about: 
Our world
Guide that inspired this poem: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741