Bruiser.

There once was a man.
He painted souls for a living
 and he lived in a dark brown house
 with green shutters
 on a cliff off the Atlantic.
His door, he always kept locked
 like he had to keep something out.

His colors ran in blacks and blues
 he made the bruised.
He couldn't help but feel
 he'd caused the things they'd do.
He would sit and sit:
 night by night,
 oh, how he'd cry
And his tears would fade the bruises
 to bring the talent back to life.

His eyes were deep gray
 and all life was shot to hell.
Just one look into a mirror
 and he'd collapse inside himself.
He would go back to his easel:
 shed a tear before dawn.
As the sun would start to rise
 the cycle goes on.

And he waits
For his break.