there is a picture ive painted,
of my life,
so tainted,
i raise my knife,
this bloody mess ive created,
just a mass of red,
kinda like a sea,
just bodies of the dead,
swinging in the breeze,
just one movement will disturb them,
be careful not to sneeze,
in the background of this picture,
it can only be,
the one with skin so shreded,
the one thats made for me,
in this picture that ive painted,
that would have made me dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem