Is This What They Call Insantiy?

The roses are red,
The violets are blue,
Her heart is dead,
And wrists a crimson hue,
Her skin is icy white,
Her eyes the color of coal,
This is such a tragic night,
For anyone to behold,
The walls dance with pain,
Covered with crimson design,
From her emptied veins,
And the love she can’t find.
The white walls taunt,
Offering no muse,
The tainting red only haunts,
A mind and body so used,
The room holds no heat,
A bed offering no sleep,
A broken heart missing a beat,
In this dull and painful keep,
Still this dying girl holds,
The beauty of a lily on a grave,
Her body lets her story unfold,
A story of a girl, who can’t be saved,
I see the girl in pieces on the floor,
A mirror’s image upon the ground,
When I don’t want to look anymore,
I find myself staring down,
Memorizing each broken piece,
For inside the reflection I see,
A bloody masterpiece,
That girl is staring back at me.

Is this what they call insanity?