December 11, 2012
She's like any other artist
But this story has a twist
Her razor is her paintbrush
And her canvas is her wrist
What she eats she vomits
On the rare times that she eats
Her life is slowly purging
Like the liquids that she drinks
She's not the life of the party
But she's mind is much alike
Especially when the voices come
To kill her late at night
They come and find her
Every time she pushes them away
She's in a cold and lonely world
Where evil comes out to play
She's living in a world
Where she can't really stand a chance
Where she can hear them
Speaking and feel their presence dance.
Her name is Amelia
Or Abigail
Or something with an A
To wear across her body
That's, I think, her name...
Her last name is Vernila
It's hard to spell and strange
That someone who's so pretty
Is in a constant change
Now she's safe in an asylum
With a tight sweater with no sleeves
She's still that scared girl inside
Since life has knocked her on her knees
But she's an artist in recovery
Plus, she has a plan
Her therapy has taught her how to paint the world without her hands
She doesn't use her razor
And she doesn't use her wrist
She uses her eyes to view the world
Like a person who exists
But she'll always be scared
(Who wouldn't be, of the world?)
but now she's not alone anymore
The voices are gone
The overdoses stopped
The demons kept away
From her new positive thoughts
She didn't use superglue or duct tape
To mend what was broken from the start
She used all her prayers and miracles
To solve all her scars
Now she's an artist
With her artwork on others' walls
On walls of all museums
And artwork for sale in malls
Her eyes became her paintbrushes
Because now she has a chance
To make the most of her life
Now it's her time to dance.

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