The sharpest brush; it gives me a rush - it paints in only red.
All across my wrists it paints of the dread - in big, uneven slits.
It paints across my big, blue veins; it gives and relieves an artist’s pain.
My art has never had a gallery; only scars for memories of maladies.
My suffering just never ends.
So, I suppose it is time to paint again.
The canvas, it is much too small; my paint gets on the floor and walls.
With bandages I hide my art - almost as well as my troubled heart.
I must be ahead of my time; people look at me like my art’s a crime.
I don’t need your disgust or your pity just because my art gets messy.
My suffering, it seems, will never end.
So, I suppose it’s time to paint again.
I’m beginning to feel a little faint; collapsing in my puddle of paint.
My brush has painted deeper than I meant - I feel so tired; my energy spent.
The crimson color escapes my art as I slip deeper into the calming dark.
I’ve done it now - there’s no going back.
How can you paint when all is black?
My suffering, I know, will never end.
And I’ll never have to paint again.