My paint brush pulled across the canvas, red is the streak of paint, dripping down the white empty  space, left to right over and over again, pain is what I feel as I look down, and stare at what i created, a monster lives inside me, Tears fall from his eyes as my sleeves come up and he sees the art I have created. He asked once if i was okay. I lied, My canvas was my wrist my paint brush was the razz-er, and my paint was the blood. I asked myself if i was okay that day and I said yes, Its all okay..... For now......