First of to let you know this is my friend's poem. I can relate to it, almost exactly though.. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She paints her pretty picture, But the story has a twist. Her paintbrush is a razor and her canvas is her wrist. She paints her pretty picture In a color that's blood red. While using her sharp paintbrush She winds up finally dead. Her pretty pictures fading now Quite slowly on her The blood isn't racing through her She can no longer do harm She painted her pretty picture But her picture had a twist You see, her mind was her razor And her heart was her wrist.