while most prefer art on walls
of quiet houses, solemn museums,
along lonely hospital corridors,
i decided to be a walking gallery
with my canvass skin bare to be strummed
by needles with the stories of my dying

i vowed for no words or names
for they can be a reminder of a tender voice
growing into an acacia of silence and forgetfulness

my mother asked me why, of all images
twisted horns and roaring with flame
i trapped a demon (ah, it speaks with my name)
i would have chosen a butterfly, i said
if only life was gentle like wings on summer winds
and so it was outlined and shaded
in and with the memory of ****** skin howling,
like my innocence once lost, never to be reclaimed

perhaps i will never discover
the name of the woman who holds my pen
faithful friends keep faith that i will
though i do not really know how, where, or when

feasted by time, poisons in my heart and veins
my face has remained a mask
for my smile who has almost forgotten daylight,
from my eyes the ****** in my every gaze
sleigh of the mind for what i hide behind:
of mysteries and deceptions born
in the loving state of trust and rejections
into demons i seek to keep in chains

inked, so i could go on dying and writing