Written by: Kyle Carlson

I wrote it on my arm
With a Bic pen
Ballpoint, black ink
I've been doing it since I was ten
The black letters, bold
Emphatically overlapped again and again
I write the words
To express my idiosyncrasies from within
It's the oil for my skin
Because I'm constructed of tin
Sometimes it feels like a pin 
Penetrating holes in me that I only see when my vision starts to spin
That's the kind of state I'm in
My poor mama and papa think it's a sin
Because with every stroke it feels like a piece of my soul is tossed straight into the bin
But I still wrote it on my arm with a grin