i leave my ink on scribbled lines
but not upon my skin
no stickers on my bumper, seen
to point out where i've been
although i find that works of art
are pleasing to the eye
my body's not a canvas
to which art should be applied
but ink up if you want to
let it flow from place to place
emulate picasso
on your legs and arms and face
your body is your temple
and to decorate, your choice
a nod to you that wear your skin
as if it had a voice
i may poke holes in logic, true
but never in my skin
i'm fearful if a breeze erupts
i'd whistle in the wind
i've never felt the need to prick
or heard the needle's call
unmindful of the holes it takes
to fill the albert hall
but pierce if its your pleasure
let your molecules be torn
and fill it up with gems and jewels
your body to adorn
your body is your temple
and to decorate, your choice
a nod to you that wear your skin
as if it had a voice
you might think i am boring
cause i have no bores in me
a vast expanse of lonely flesh
devoid of artistry
but that is my decision
to remain airtight and pink
you might think that i'm simple
but its simply what i think
your body is your temple
and to decorate, your choice
a nod to you that wear your skin
as if it had a voice
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