There once was a little artist who did use her paintbrush well,
she took it everywhere with her, making magic, speaking spells.
When the darkness would overcome, with twinkles twinkling bright
she would settle down and watch, waiting for the fright.
And when her fiendish friend arrived she didn't scramble nor did she scream,
Instead she took her brush in her palm with it, creating a screen.
A small blanket to cover her small eyes while her dark antagonist remained
would shield her from the fright of mystery, the suffering from pain.
And as the girl grew her skill only increased-
The things she could paint were better than any other famed artist.
Everyday she walked on the same crooked, cracked road
In  hopes of meeting someone friendly, to not be alone.
And everyday that dream did come in many shapes and forms,
but in every dream she took her brush and painted for herself a storm.
Her brush created terrible nightmares those which are meant to scare,
but she saw them and felt comfort, covering what was bare.
It wasn't till one day that she questioned her sacred art
when a faraway figure emerged and offered her his heart.
She cowered and questioned and felt fear anew
What was the practiced painter to do?
Well she looked at her brush, lifting it to her friend,
and wished she didn't have to do what she had done time and time again.
She turned her brush around and closed her small, small eyes,
and painted lines on herself, those meant to disguise.
She wrapped herself in her blanket, sewn from terrible storms
and watched from behind her brush, wondering why she made herself alone.