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.