The Artist

Once I was sane, supporting steely stoicism,
Then, I discovered the joy of creation,
The sweet nectar which was mutilation.
Envisaged sights for all to behold,
My artistic talent roamed free,
Marrow as undercoating,
Eye as the spectator,
Blood as overlay,
Such potential!
It was just,
Simply,
Wrong.

Individuals monotone and limiting,
They cannot comprehend my vision of art!
Ignorant masses and insolent fools.
The fleeting moment from life to death,
Masterpieces of blood and bone,
It gives all utter redemption,
Shows allure in murder.
Skin is my canvas,
Hair is my brush,
This is my,
Realm of:
Art.

With absence of suffering and anxiety,
So dull, I would just be a husk or a shell,
With pain, comes pleasure, and much ecstasy,
Reality needs to restrict me.
They have such hate and jealousy!
Through art, I express with death-
Please, end my fallacy.
My Magnum Opus,
My final art,
It should be,
Shall be,
Me.

Author's Note

A poem that I dug up from my notes, thoughts? Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Reviews

[K.Easterbrook]

I really like this, great piece. Its very dark and strong. I like how you explain the comparison of art with the acts of violence and mutilation an alternate perspective but a powerful one.