My Skin Speaks

No more talk of the darkness 
Forget these wide eye fear 
My skin breaths 


A statements to be made
Crayons and colour pencils 
A date with the ink


I sat with the canvas of life  
My visions, thoughts, grew into   
Wants of expressions manifestation  


I sought to pen out my Alma-mater  
In inks, on canvas skins, my skin speaks  
Like the Pharaohs in by gone years  


I was to be labelled, with words that shout out  
Philosophy or a picture in art, symbols  
A bird, a butterfly, or Betty Boo, a beautiful flower    


A little devil, seats on my shoulder   
In Chinese writing, I ink in few words   
Few know what meanings say   


So I am constantly asked the question  
Questions of what words say, why Chinese   
How do you know, if it's not, an insult, a lie 


Some do that with language you know
And its for life, like writing a name
Of someone past, gone from cross-roads


What do you do then
To them, critics, observers, I say  
This is my Picaso  


My private collections   
My picture splash 
Never to be bought and sold


For life, it seats 
As my tribal mark
Symbols of my existence, my skin breaths 


But for the fear of needles, I am still stood
In between doors of before and after
On adrenalin's squeamish trails


To have my paint work marked 
On me, as my tribal marks 
For life, I  will own it


For now I am squeamish
In door ways 
And my skin waits to breath