She was an artist, a vangogh of modern times,
Illustrating her anguish and despair in red paint.
She was complex, drawing masterpieces from rhymes,
At the same time sketching on her arms till the red became faint.
The more she drew, the stronger her words became,
As the ink on her body became colorless.
She needed no recognition, no fame or name,
But at times her thoughts relapsed and her pen became powerless
The blade she held in her hands,
Contradicted the beauty she wrote in word.
She wrote of red roses, smiles and scenic lands,
But the more she wrote, the less she was heard.
The wounds contracted and reopened, incomprehensible,
Even if she's found other outlets.
Days and nights passed and her words became infinitesimal,
Blood drenched the tiles, until her body ran out of it.