Painting of Blood
Look at the painting on the wall,
A picture of perfection,
Every stroke distinct,
And every little detail so elegantly drawn.
With trees of textured bark,
And grasses in dance,
The crimson sky so vividly painted,
With realistic clouds tinted in texture.
Look at the body on the floor,
Slumped over in slumber,
With eyes glinting lifelessly into nothing,
A plastic white tray splattered with dried red liquid,
Lie abandoned on the wooden floor.
The wrist is slashed,
As dead as can be,
That deep red cut coated with ruby stains.
A knife lies a little beyond,
Guilty of suicide,
It soaks in a dried puddle of blood.
There rests a paintbrush,
Within that dead cold hand,
The fiber stiff and unwashed,
Thick with the essence of demise.
It's the paintbrush that drew,
The picture on the wall,
Painted with her own blood.
A.N: a random idea I got, written 2 days after my depression with 7391.
Look at the painting on the wall,
A picture of perfection,
Every stroke distinct,
And every little detail so elegantly drawn.
With trees of textured bark,
And grasses in dance,
The crimson sky so vividly painted,
With realistic clouds tinted in texture.
Look at the body on the floor,
Slumped over in slumber,
With eyes glinting lifelessly into nothing,
A plastic white tray splattered with dried red liquid,
Lie abandoned on the wooden floor.
The wrist is slashed,
As dead as can be,
That deep red cut coated with ruby stains.
A knife lies a little beyond,
Guilty of suicide,
It soaks in a dried puddle of blood.
There rests a paintbrush,
Within that dead cold hand,
The fiber stiff and unwashed,
Thick with the essence of demise.
It's the paintbrush that drew,
The picture on the wall,
Painted with her own blood.
A.N: a random idea I got, written 2 days after my depression with 7391.