He's an artist

Who uses tools of silver but draws out red

His thoughts keep him tossing and turning in bed

In the foggy light of the bathroom, his talent is best scene 

He cries as he draws about what he could have been

He cries every day under the tree by the creek

Biting his lips to cease the tears, not wanting to seem weak

But one day under the silvery calm moonlight

There stood a girl with eyes burning bright

She stepped closer to the edge, wanting to unite with the water and fill her holes

But she stopped cold upon seeing the bloody artwork on his soul

With a sigh, she rolled her sleeves and whispered, "I draw too."

Tears glistened his eyes but he said, "I'll help you."