Pain Hides in Pretty Words

These pretty pictures,
Painted in red.
Undried,
Undefined.
Ready to be as wished.
New places the paint spills.
Sometimes more goes,
Sometimes it drips to the floor.

Such a talented painter.
But all work must be concealed,
From those who don't understand.
Even from those who just may.  
Concealed from all.

Young with the beautiful skill,
They say the painters are crazy,
but they are just simply misunderstood.
Unlike others, their paint is formed beneath their skin.

The paint never stays,
eventually it washes away.
Up the canvas watch it go,
it grows and grows and grows.
Higher and higher,
leg to arm, arm to shoulder, shoulder to neck.
Oh look, another painter dead.