He paints a picture,
But the story has a twist
His paintbrush is a razor.

And his canvas is his wrist,
He paints his picture
In a color that's blood red.

While using his sharp pain brush
He ends up finally dead.

His pictures fading
Quite slowly on his arm
The blood is not racing through him
He can no longer do harm.

He painted his picture
But his picture had a twist.
You see his mind was his razor
And his heart was his wrist.

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