If I could draw a picture of sorrow and hurt, what would it be?

A beat up heart,

A broken down mind,

Maybe a soul who has lost all hope of the future?

 

A face whose eyes stare unseeingly at the beauty that surrounds it,

And while others receive it this face does not.

 

Maybe a world with a broken axel,

Might slightly do the trick;

But even then it won’t compare,

To the pain in my head.

 

A lone tree in a pasture,

Bending to the wind;

Could maybe give you an idea,

Of the isolation I feel.

 

Maybe a clock running out of time,

With the springs popping out;

And in the back ground the clock maker,

Just sits back and watches the clock break down.

 

There is no way for me to illustrate,

The sorrow that I feel;

No picture does it justice,

No sketch can even compare.

 

The only way you can see the pain I feel,

Is to glance down at my wrists;

I guess you could say that the scars that mar my body,

Is art the represents my hurt the most.