About:
She paints a pretty picture But the story has a twist Her paintbrush is a razor Her canvas is her wrist
She paints her pretty picture In a color that's bri She paints a pretty picture But the story has a twist Her paintbrush is a razor Her canvas is her wrist
She paints her pretty picture In a color that's bright red While using her sharp paintbrush She ends up finally dead
Her picture's slowly fading Quite slowly on her arm The blood is not racing through her She can no longer do harm
She painted her pretty picture But her story has a twist You see her mind is the razor And her heart was her wrist
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Looking back through the pages of yesterday, All the childhood dreams that drifted away Even the boxes of crayons on the shelf Reflect bits and pieces of myself...
But I know now in my heart and mind I had to leave it all behind And as a tear comes slowly to my eye, I stop and ask myself, "Why?"
