This is a poem I wrote a couple days ago. Is it any good?
I want to paint a picture,
a picture on my wrist.
A beautiful piece of art,
created by a razor in my fist.
Engulfed with swirls of red,
my art begins to show.
And with each swipe of my hand,
my picture seems to grow.
And as it fades away,
as in time it does.
I'm left with a scar,
a forever remnant of the pain that once was.
And then when I look back,
at the pain I caused my friends.
I realize it's not worth it,
and this is when it ends.