Bright eyed girl
She loves to paint
She smiles at the world
Seems free from hate

The paint is a comfort
The brush is her friend
Its the only thing she knows
Will be there until the end

As she paints her feelings
It all pours out
Its her way of living
All the colors shout

Streaks of paint run down her arms
She thinks that it can do no harm
Hiding behind the papers white gleam
Together they make a deadly team

For here's the secret
She'll always hide
Forever etched
into her mind:

She may be an artist
But this story has a twist
Her paintbrush is a razor
Her canvas is her wrist.

I am that dusty book
on the edge of your shelf
that you'd never pick up
and never look through;
surrounded by all those covers
that look better than me.

insanity is using the comfort of a pillow for suffocation

my stomach flutters
my soul shutters
my voice stutters;
this is what you do to me

I can't swim anymore.
The waves are pulling me under,
and I think I am going to let them win.

“The sadness will last forever.”
- Suicide note of Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890)