Some like to journal on paper
Some scribe into their skin
But my testament hides
Behind guarded lips
Primal etches in a cavern
My mouth the masterpiece
Of misfortune’s skilled eye
The colors there bewilder
Red, black, green, purple, blue
A rainbow amidst the dark
A master of media
Poverty often crafts
The most intricate of spoils
Among the discarded class
Our mouths a showcase of toil
Charcoal smears the tops of my teeth
Red paint adorns my gums
Abstract strokes of white in front
Deep purple patches peek in back
The one hurting is mystic green
But when throbs wake my sleep
Ripe stench repels my taste
And pills hold no respite
I know a piece has rotted
And my collection must shorten
Emergency receives me
Teeth matching their coats
I share my exotic tapestry
Its realism, pain—my story
They cannot appreciate
And I lose one by one
The slow craftsmanship
Of life’s daily brushstrokes
With no compensation
And a receipt of crushing dues
A hundred years from today
Excavators will unearth history
They will decode messages left
In script, skin, and scraps
Piecing together our lives
I tour my dwindling sculptures
And wonder what will be left
When I am a studied remnant
How will they share my tale
Of slow anguish without glory
Oct 28, 2020
Oct 28, 2020 at 6:33 PM UTC
Some like to journal on paper
Some scribe into their skin
But my testament hides
Behind guarded lips
Primal etches in a cavern
My mouth the masterpiece
Of misfortune’s skilled eye
The colors there bewilder
Red, black, green, purple, blue
A rainbow amidst the dark
A master of media
Poverty often crafts
The most intricate of spoils
Among the discarded class
Our mouths a showcase of toil
Charcoal smears the tops of my teeth
Red paint adorns my gums
Abstract strokes of white in front
Deep purple patches peek in back
The one hurting is mystic green
But when throbs wake my sleep
Ripe stench repels my taste
And pills hold no respite
I know a piece has rotted
And my collection must shorten
Emergency receives me
Teeth matching their coats
I share my exotic tapestry
Its realism, pain—my story
They cannot appreciate
And I lose one by one
The slow craftsmanship
Of life’s daily brushstrokes
With no compensation
And a receipt of crushing dues
A hundred years from today
Excavators will unearth history
They will decode messages left
In script, skin, and scraps
Piecing together our lives
I tour my dwindling sculptures
And wonder what will be left
When I am a studied remnant
How will they share my tale
Of slow anguish without glory