Becoming Canvas
As with most things,
it all began with an intention.
A needle pierces skin.
That’s the beautiful part. The easy part.
The tearing into layers of shell that's needed.
Iridescence exposed.
The art is already within.
There's an element of trust,
but if you know someone well enough
that’s a non-issue.
This time was personal.
A friend. A poet.
You may even know him, here on Medium.
I didn't tell him this next part. What I thought was…
Through your art
I've gained an understanding
of who you are,
and I don’t need
to know anything else.
I trust you, completely.
Do your thing.
Create.
Pain is a subjective experience.
If you've lived long enough,
minor inflections upon the surface
of flesh are completely inconsequential
to other, far deeper wounds.
Most of which are never inflicted
on the physical body itself.
I was
so
relaxed
I could've
fallen
asleep.
My soul receives
a complete cycle of artist
in an altered vision of my own,
inked to fruition.
Experience unfolds
as pigments of imagination
suffuse skin.
This isn’t my first time,
or his.
It’s this time,
and that’s all that matters now.
Stark white walls
peel away into a world
of birch trees to explore
as I'm here, he's there,
I'm inside the lacunae,
and I'm already gone.
Art reveals itself
through an oasis of patience
flowing over a needle tip.
There is a grounding.
Incense permeates,
music infuses,
chit chat ensues.
Internal vibes hang
like missing artwork.
Peace fills spaces undefined.
Consequence fades
into the next song.
I am art.
