An Artist's Canvas

(This is a poem in metaphors and is not meant to rhyme...so read before you judge me!)

She stared at her blank canvas,
Not knowing what was going to consume it,
Her new brush was waiting,
And ready to be used.

She started with a simple line,
Going carefully down the middle,
The crimson paint shown brightly,
Against the offwhite canvas.

The girl made another line,
Perpendicular to the first,
She was a girl of math,
And loved geometry especially.

She continued to make uniform lines,
Making smooth and careful strokes,
But soon her inner rage took over,
And it turned into a massacre.

Her paintbrush zoomed wildly,
Along the once blank canvas,
Straight lines were gone,
Replaced by thrashes of red.

As soon as she was done,
She put down the paint-soaked brush,
And took a look at her work,
It was unlike any she'd done before.

She was so consumed by it,
It took her breath away,
And down she fell,
Into a neverending sleep.

Unknown to most,
This artist's canvas,
Could not be bought at an art store,
Let alone any store.

The canvas was her skin,
And her paintbrush the blade,
The crimson paint was her blood,
And her rage was her tears.

Now this artist,
Had painted her last work,
And when everyone saw it,
They knew it was her masterpiece.

**I get my ideas from random things, and in English we're doing poetry, and like always, we learn different terms. Metaphors and Similes kinda stuck out for me, because I could make something ordinary into something completely different. I picked this because I saw a girl whose arms were just covered in cuts, and it kinda sparked the idea...and no this is not based of me or anyone in particular (specifically).**