I shaved off my beard.
I saw lines on my face.
I watched my disguise clot as it washed down the drain.
I trickled some bleach
to help pass the years.
I never got clean as I knew I should be.
The mirror is a lover,
who cheats when I turn my back.
I gave drugs to the children so they might forget this act.
I have no more colors in my little wax box.
The sky is cloudy like the depths of my thoughts.
I knew that this exit had to begin,
so I picked up my compass and followed the spin.
I set fire to my journals and mixed their ashes with tar.
I painted all the windows black with my brush and five puffs of a cigar.
I scratched out my story with a needle and the tip of my tongue.
Then I waited till morning
to see what I had done.
The sun came through in cross hatch.
Jagged letters spelled out my hurt.
I knew it was finished, my malevolent work of art.
So I picked up my pen knife
and signed my name
with the last day of my life;
the last ounce of my strength.
Author's Note: This particular poem relates directly to a series of artworks I made. View them here: