The razor is my brush,

My blood is my paint,

My body is the canvass,

In which carries a rusty taint,

My sense of beautiful art,

Is not for the easily of faint,

from my own ghastly heart,

A patron of the Saint,

Already ripped fully apart,

Cut along the dotted line,

Ask me if I'm okay,

I'll just say I'm fine,

But what does "fine" mean,

I could tell you if I cared,

But I don't care for anything,

Yes my life is in great distress,

But no one really understands,

Why I am the "Macabre Paintress"