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Paint
February 16, 2015
I once knew a boy who loved to paint,
His arms were steady and his head was faint,
His art was a wonder and his hands were clever,
Colour from green to red to heather.
His painting, however, is not what you think,
The remains of which can drip down the sink.
You might think his paintbrush would be of an aid-
You wouldn't suspect that it was a blade.
"Do you like my work, my craft, my art?"
He asks, and the words break your heart.
You know the art, the rhythm, the rhyme...
Because you used to paint your skin all the time.
© Allison F., Menlo Park, CA
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I struggled withself harm for a long time, and one day instead of picking up something to harm myself with I grabbed a pen and started to write - this was the result. Two years on, I'm still very proud of this poem.