Mr. Unknown

Mr. Unknown
his flesh is composed
of twisted and crumbled paper,
which interlock to form his body,
a body, which is covered with a wrinkled skin of glue.

Mr. Unknown
his veins are a bunch of pens
burned and fused together,
twisting and turning within,
they are stained with ink,
not blood.

Mr. Unknown
his fingers are ten crayons,
his tongue a paintbrush,
and with them he scribbles and paints
images on the blood red canvas of my heart.
The images transform into sounds,
the sounds transforms into words,
words in my mouth.
I try to speak the words,
but I am silenced
by this system, by this censorship.
Mr. Unknown is poetry,
Mr. Unknown is a part of me,
Mr. Unknown is poetry,
Mr. Unknown
is a part of me….
Mr. Unknown, or better yet poetry,
is a dying artist
lying in my soul,
and decaying
because of this system,
because of this censorship.
We can’t speak words,
but they will paint the walls
with our blood . . . .

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