I paint these lines
With coagulated ink
Soaked, carefully explained
A narration of agony.

From plastic sheath
I draw my blade
The preparation of graphene
Will also prepare me

To pull the trigger.
Each notch, a bit more pressure
With each notch
The pain grows bigger

So that I may
Slit the straps
Of crimson bricks on my back,
From slaughter, we’ll build

A house with strong walls.
That don’t falter to whims,
A house to protect
The little man from this hell,

Made from thick, crimson lines
A strong foundation
From technical, structured perfection
I paint my prison cell.

11.XI.24