I am a painter
A painter with a twist
For me paintbrush is a knife
And the canvas is me wrist
My pictures are so pretty
But no-one else can see
Just why I paint these pictures
On not paper but me
They do not understand how bad
This lonely life can be
Or why I decorate me wrists
If only they could see
Maybe if they understood
They'd come along and save me
But as they don't I've got no hope
For little me to be
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem