asylum of mine

Ink and Blood and Water

I put words where i wish my flesh was showing.

I use black thin ink,

where I imagine my skin split.

the lines are messy,

and the ink is smeared,

if only I used a better tool 

the drops would paint the sheets with my agony.

I don't want to be an echo of my own past.

But my passion for putting black words where blood should be, 

fades away like a two-days old ink. 

I miss the days my arms left burgundy stains,

I miss the slow process of healing, 

the way water and ink and blood mixed

so beautifully

and in seconds all my feeling went down the drain. 

My lust for painting pictures was thriving.

But here I am

at 4 AM reminiscing about a time so long gone,

all that is left of that tormented little artist

is a pen 

and layers of skin

and a collection of used canvases,

with a dying passion to paint at night.