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,
hurt,
wounded,
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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