I stare at the art on my personal canvas,
remembering each story.
Kind of like how people stare at paintings,
trying to put it together like a puzzle.
I look at the lines on my arm,
knowing what each one means.
Words spell out only shreds of truth.
I grab my utensil and get to work.
Red drips down my arm,
like wet paint down a useless wall.
Creating art for the people to try and figure out.
I spin in circles, dance upon my red stained floor.
Red slides down my arm
onto the floor like splattered paint.
I create another picture on my upper arm.
Finally I can breathe agian.
I feel better looking at another original art peice,
a smile crosses my face.
