I knew a girl who liked to draw,
she drew pictures that nobody saw.
She was most artistic late at night,
in the bedroom, out of sight.
She kept it a secret, without giving any clues,
not a soul knew, and her gallery grew and grew.
It was a different kind of art, no paper or pen,
but needed some stitches or bandage now and again.
I took her to the dark and murky river,
which reminded me of my life.
It was then when she rolled up his sleeves,
and showed me her scars with embarrassed eyes.
I laughed at Irony,  and rolled mine up too,
"I draw as well", i whispered and stood.
Taking her hand, we jumped into the river,
and  rain of white feathers fell.
That's when the demons quited,
and the river turned clear  as the sun rose up ahead.