The razor is my brush,

My skin is my canvas.

I am an artist.

I paint beautiful pictures,

All painted with blood.

It just looks like red paint,

No one can really see,

The depth inside of me.

No one sees the pain I feel,

No one understands all I'm going through.

My life is a living hell.

Getting hated on everyday is tough.

Even though I act tough as a rock,

I'm the easiest person to bend and break.

I walk through life with a smile on my face,

But everyone knows that it's fake.

Nothing in my life is real anymore.

Sometimes I still question if I should be living life.

I just don't feel like this whole "living" thing is right for me.

I need to figure this out,

But until then,

I'll continue to paint those beautiful pictures on my skin,

With more blood and more in depth than ever before.