A Pretty Picture

He paints a pretty picture But the story has a twist His paintbrush is his razor And his canvas is his wrist He paints a pretty picture In a colour that's blood red While using his sharp paintbrush He ends up finally dead His pretty pictures fading Quite slowly on his arm Blood is not racing through him He can no longer do harm He painted his pretty picture But the story had a twist You see his mind was his razor And his heart was his wrist