His Superpower

He is the artist and his body is his canvas,
Bloody lines sketched down his arms,  
Just relics of his numb, futile eternity,
His feeble attempts to feel something,
But he doesn’t realize that his art is worth more than his life,  
That it could sell for millions,
Because his drowning is his superpower.
 
When he exposes the arm he lugs,  
Uncovers the canvas that’s his drug,
When he selects the blade that he loves,  
And picks out his favourite bloody brush,
Is when he welcomes home truelove.
Is when his superpower stops his mental thug.
 
Because when he’s hurting that much,  
He can forget what others can’t.
Because when he hates himself that much,  
What’s he got to lose?
 
To reject and refuse passion, to be cold-hearted,
Can be a weapon to help his war.
To disregard and defy society, to be bohemian,
Can be a shelter during his storms.
To hate and hostilize himself, to be kamikaze,
Can be a fortress against his tsunami.  
 
Because when nothing honestly matters,  
He can do anything.  
Because when he teases death,
He's got nothing to lose.