Final picture

Suicide pain despair.

My body is the easel, waiting for the paint.
My skin will be the canvas, on which a pictures drawn.
The brushes are all bristling , in the kitchen drawer.
The painting is my life , created by my blood.

The brushes from the knife drawer, created a peaceful scene.
The skin upon my wrists, parts easily for the paint.
The blood creates a river, winding gently down the arms.
Here is my final picture, but not for an galleries wall.