Speaking a thousand words I am but a puff of smoke
from the jail in ballyheather eighteen years tourtered
my body is full of mortal bullet holes of hate spoken
torture day in day out no laughter no freedom nada
torture words mostly grinding my pure soul into dust
yes I was dead on arrival at one year nine months dead
when did it begin the stripping away of everything real
I sang in the choir I went to sunday school miss woods
cried she loved Jesus and in him I felt my salvation
The painting says it all I barely remember doing it art
yes art releases all body pain art can only celebrate
like a secret never to be told art releases the horror
making it easier to look at but not really I look and
see blood everywhere. In my eyes so much sorrow
how did I survive my eyes are full of meaning my
lips are big. I have become a very tall tree.
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