The paint drips, staining your clothes. The strokes are wide- “more paint than I thought.”
Your vision blurs as you paint your last stroke.
“What have I done?” you whisper alone. Destroying yourself, your graves grows.
No one can save you, you can’t even speak. No one cares, it’ll be over soon. One last stroke and you’ll be gone.
Reaching for the brush your eyes water- feeling the ground that’ll soon devour. That one last stroke ends it all..
“What a wonderful picture.” you lay and go.