he put a gun to his head
to paint the wall red
with the demons that lurked in his brain.

they hid in the crevices and cracks
patiently waiting to attack
and drive the poor boy insane.

his friends thought he was smart
but he was consumed in his art
and never came out of his room.

they just thought he was strange
but he was completely deranged
when they heard the blast and the boom.

he laid on the floor
when they opened the door
and all they saw were the soles of his shoes.

on the wall was just paint
not the blood of a saint
and it splattered when he shattered his blues.

he put a gun to his head
to paint the wall red
with the demons that lurked in his brain.


sweet suicide poems,

scott