(Note that this is kinda ****** and macabre at some point so, your call)
The Suicidal Painter

A shadowy character. A man shrouded in darkness.
A foreshadowed pain and other feelings that can't be restrained.
A special being. A master of the arts.
But instead of a trusty paintbrush, he wields a rusty blade.

As a man of expression, he released his irrepressible depression.
He let the dark thoughts prance in his mind,
as these thoughts consumed his sanity.

As his thoughts continued to dance, the blade followed its steps.
It sliced and slit, and almost hits his critical veins.
As crimson red splatters in his supposed canvas,
The image of his beloved began to take form.

As his blade circle around his arm,
Teardrops roll on his cheeks and sweat form in his forehead.
Slowly, the droplets approach his wounds.
One by one, the drops make contact with his open skin.
And every excruciating sting he feels,
A memory with her disappears.

As his blood continuously drip from his severely lacerated arm,
he lets go of his blade.
Then he paints with his trembling fingers, a pair of wings for his beloved.
The blood red wings to let her go.
The unstable wings to set her free.

But even then, his blood-dipped fingers continued to swish and rustle through the canvas.
As he steadies her wings, she began to fade to the fabric.
As his consciousness wanes, he puts his finishing touch.
Like every maestro who is done with his creation,
he smiles
And as he sees her image completely gone,
he realizes his eternal freedom.