Pretty Picture

She paints a pretty picture,
But her story has a twist,
Her paintbrush is a razor,
And her canvas is her wrist.
She paints her pretty picture,
In a story that's blood red,
While using her sharp painbrush,
She ends up finally dead.
Her pretty picture fading,
Quite slowly on her arm,
The blood is not racing through her,
She can no longer do herself 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.

Reviews

[Bhumika Devkota]

Good poem and great job.