She paints smiles on people's faces
But she can't paint one for herself
*Day by day, she tries
Everyday, she fails*
Until she came up with an idea
of painting her last canvas
She wants it to be memorable
and so she did it
*Not with a brush, but with a razor
Not on a paper, but on her wrist
And the colors were not pastels
nor watercolors, but it was red.
It was blood.
And it spilled
Til it was too much.*
True enough, her masterpiece
was remembered
It was seen as a symbol of sin by some,
some say it's simply tragic
some try to understand
--and for her that's art--
Something that tells a story
sad and beautiful at the same time
*The painter wanted to be a masterpiece
And so
she became one*
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
She paints smiles on people's faces
But she can't paint one for herself
*Day by day, she tries
Everyday, she fails*
Until she came up with an idea
of painting her last canvas
She wants it to be memorable
and so she did it
*Not with a brush, but with a razor
Not on a paper, but on her wrist
And the colors were not pastels
nor watercolors, but it was red.
It was blood.
And it spilled
Til it was too much.*
True enough, her masterpiece
was remembered
It was seen as a symbol of sin by some,
some say it's simply tragic
some try to understand
--and for her that's art--
Something that tells a story
sad and beautiful at the same time
*The painter wanted to be a masterpiece
And so
she became one*