They locked me up in an 8 by 8 cell.
My crime – a verse I wrote.
It too had only 8 lines.

They refuse to give me any sheets to write.
I have neither a pen nor ink in my sight.
They think my words can be silenced.
Don’t they know for another eight words I am ready to bleed?

I tore away my shirt, and then my trouser.
I made my own sheets, my words had to speak.
My fingers became my pen.
Warm red blood, my very own ink.

They marched in the next day.
Furious at my insolence.
They threw away my water and food.
Kicked me for every word that I wrote.

I took it all with a silent gentle smile.
Until they burned my children in front of my very eyes.
The silent night woke up with my piercing scream.
Only to be quickly silenced by hard brown leather in my teeth.
I slip into unconsciousness but only after I had tasted a little of my ink.

I wake up, blink rapidly and look all around me.
My eyes sparkle as I pick myself up with a chuckle.
Oh those fools! They do not see!
These prison walls are but a large canvas for me.
I have the whole night and plenty of ink.

I have painted the walls with my words in scarlet.
This is all they will see, my words and me.
I hear their clamoring, screams and swearing.
I lough louder and begin whirling in ecstasy.
Oh these fools! They will never see.

~ I am a poet. I exist even after I cease. ~

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