Art [About Cutting. Prequel to No longer an Artist]

Curtains are closed, her mind is shut,
She picks up a blade and starts to cut,
She cuts away without a single care,
Life and death what's to compare?
Sitting alone she tears her skin apart,
Blood and blades create an art.
Wanting to leave this life she hates so much,
She slices away with the midest touch.
Not all cutters want sympathy,
They just deal with pain differently.
If you want a definition, I guess I'd have to say,
Cutting is an art, of a presuicidal play.

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