Artists of the night..

There was a boy,
Who drew perfect portraits,
He drew what his heart felt,
His paintings all on his hand.

He worked best at night,
In the quiet when the owl hooted,
When the lights were off he drew,
His heart spilling all that he knew.

Now this boy used weird tools,
A knife for a paintbrush,
Blood for paint,
And his skin, a canvas.

The paintings brought pain,
The sting he welcomed,
A smile as he saw the red,
Content and silent as he bled.

One day she came along,
Under the moonlight they met,
His sleeve went up a little,
Fear, panic, he felt.

Under the stars she gasped,
Looking him in his eyes,
Slowly she replied,
“I draw too”.