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She sits in her room quietly,
Scared and alone.
She sits in a corner afraid to go back,
Back to being bullied,
Always having her gaurd up.
But then she thinks to herself,
"Will everything be alright?"
A few months pass.
Everything starts to crumble.
She runs home,
Hoping that it will all be okay.
She picks up her paint brush,
Looking confused at her canvas.
With an idea she begins to paint.
The tears run down her face,
Only making it harder to see
Painting a bit hard,
The paint brush goes through the canvas.
She cries more...
"What did I do to deserve this?"
The next day,
She was found in her room.
Her paint brush in her hand,
Her broken canvas laying on the ground.
Her motionless body on the floor.
For the canvas was her wrist...
The paint brush a razor blade...
For she had died from blood loss,
Another soul destroyed by society.
Her soul now fly's freely,
Not scared or alone,
No more sitting in corners,
No more bullying...
She is happy...once agin.