You paint a pretty picture,
With your softly spoken lies.
But you don't know the damage,
That you do when in disguise.

With gentle flowing brush strokes,
You leave your blood red trails.
A masterpiece of deceit,
and all that it entails.

It seemed a thing of beauty,
When glanced at from a distance.
A most perfect work of art.
A personal renaissance.

But then we get in closer,
And the flaws you could not hide,
Come rushing to the surface,
And it all begins to slide.

You can't hope to cover up,
Flaws in the canvas below.
No matter the paint you use,
Those dark holes will always show.

It's really an ugly thing,
Painting with your mockery
And seeing the truth you've hidden,
Once past all the trickery.