Whispers of his knife were simple and sweet; Until he found my heart.
Before I could react, he repeatedly stabbed me
Until his knife was stuck in my chest.
Taking a seat and collecting his thoughts…
He dragged my body over to his canvas,
Grabbed his brush and began to paint with my blood;
And when the paint dry just remember you left your mark. You still present,and him with his deceit is not even relevant. That is why his art is done in the dark because it is not worth your light.
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