THE ARTIST
The girl drew pictures, Beautiful were they, But no one saw them, Cuz' she never wanted them. The pictures were different; Some fresh, some old, Some pale, some dark; but she drew every night. Alone at night, She drew them. Strange were they, You may think. Her wrist was her canvas, A razor, her pen, She was a broken soul, That you never met. You never knew, She was right beside you, Just a touch, Would have healed her. You paid no attention, Now she's gone. Don't shed a tear, Cuz' you never cared, When she was here.