Silence fills my jail cell like a familiar companion

The guard, round in the middle, eyes me warily

I don't blame him

Because right now I am imagining all the beautiful ways

that I could make his body art.

Some artists use canvas and paint,

others use pen and paper.

I am an artist whose medium will never be understood.

I am a poet and razorblades replace quill, blood is my ink, flesh my paper.

I turn words into reality and create a beyond metaphorical meaning.

I can still feel the warmth of blood on my fingers,

the pliancy of flesh beneath practiced hands.

I am the Einstein of art.

The new Picasso.

I am Poe, reincarnate.

The clinical smell of sheets remind me

of the ritualist ways in which I cleanse my canvases

and the metallic bars

chill against my flesh,

are all welcome comforts.

My cell is the break between Masterpieces, the quiet amongst chaos.

They cannot contain me.

I will write again.

Until next time.

Enjoy the photo book, Officers.

 

Signed,

Your Favorite Poet