Sketch Pad of Flesh

I have a sketch pad that I carry with me everywhere
Whether I be in my own home
Or in the home of another
In the church of a fake religion
Or in the break room of my workplace
There are millions of pages that are blank
And ready to be sketched on
My pens are hidden in a special place
Hidden away from the naked eye
I can only draw in private
Away from suspicious eyes and minds
Unable to comprehend what the sketches mean
What is the hidden meaning behind that word?
What is the secret interpretation of that star?
 There is color in those sketches
Though the color is limited
I draw on a page and color fills the lines
Sometimes...
The color will spill out of the lines
And onto the other sketches
Yet I do not care
Here I stand before you
I am my sketch pad and my skin are the pages
Sharp edges are my pens and my own blood
Adds color to the sketches
I have a sketch pad of flesh
And razor blades are my pens
Blood are my paints that make them beautiful
No one can see my sketches
Despite how beautiful I may think they are
I have a sketch pad of human flesh
And cold metal razor blades are my pens
Mortal blood is the pain that fills the lines
And makes them beautiful
This is my therapy and my way of releases it all
This is how I express
The things that cannot be put into words
I have a sketch pad of human flesh
And cold metal razor blades are my pens
Mortal blood fills the lines of my sketches
Please don’t take my sketch pad
My therapy
Please don’t take it all away


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