Red Ink

by Niki Bell de Castanon

When I drip words,
I bleed lines,
Of blood stained sheets,
I drip blood of written ink,
A very low tolerance for...
Vanity, materialistic, shallowness,
Basically human beings except the children,
Contact is few and rare,
Just got out of solitaire,
Integrating back on the block,
Cultural hype not my forte,
Making my own music,
Standing between barrier lines,
Standing between categories shoved dangling 
that depict who I really am,
Living DOUBLE that life,
Fighting for sanity,
When I drip words,
I bleed lines,
Of blood stained sheets,
I drip blood of written ink,
The floor is comforting,
The cold a blanket of reality,
Donít hip hop around the truth,
Nor scratch the surface,
I write blood lines of blood point bullets pinned,
Scraping the chalkboard with truth and realism,
And in the end,
Producing blood stained sheets,
Are my sweet remedy,
My herbal meditation,
Instead of crying in my prayers 
to the human Godís of righteousness,
I dripped bloody words of written ink,
The scars do not heal,
The confusion perceived by others is...
Oh, you were considered by Playboy last year,
That makes you a whore,
Oh, you network,
Whatís your agenda,
And what exactly are you selling,
I just got out of solitaire,
Empowered by...
But, I am still being kept there,
Limited beyond imagination,
Resources donít exist,
Mind is so stretched lost a patch of hair last week,
The inconsistencies,
Mind spinning trying to find a way,
Tears cascading down the arms,
Going 80 miles an hour full speed 
cycling down the darkened highway- voices screaming,
Into a tall cement wall,
Shut down like a dummy,
Again, began to drip blood of written ink,
Again, began to drip blood of written ink is my inspiration,
Death Row... I donít know... My brother,
Where are they now, Everybody, The Strippers,
In prison meant...
The Drug Dealers, Addicts, we use to know,
Write to me... My brother,
The Gangs you lead and beheaded,
We fight to kill or at least draw blood,
I am your keeper...
Where the hell did everyone go!
Write to me from San Quentin on Death Row,
I might be back in solitaire though,
Seven years on the cell block, Five in solitaire,
You may be surprised... I already know,
Already know, The railroads and the smell of death inside,
Until then,
I will continue to bleed words with red ink,
Staining sheets,
You took my soul, now give it back!
Until then,
Iíll keep on rowing, rowing, rowing,
ďRow, Row, Row your boat,
Gently down the stream,
Merry, Merry, Merry. Merry life is but a dream.Ē

Red Ink by Niki Bell de Castanon

© Copyright 2004. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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