Modified

The pain was comfortably numbing, for he was a disciple of pain, but also a prophet of pleasure, he considered them one and the same.

Some people thought he was crazy, some people had labelled him mad. Some people thought him the salt of the earth, some people could see he was sad.

He turned the gun down on himself, so he felt each inky lance. His artistry in symmetry, through pain, he was enhanced.

He painted and he pierced himself, he felt his senses freed. A better way to harm himself, still feeding the craving to bleed.

Now his early scars where covered, with a tapestry of life. Steel and flesh and ink combined, as a book to measure each strife.

He is adorned with dragons, angels and demons between.
A body stained, in the memory of pain, and the pleasure yet to be seen.