The artist, the painter, he never wanted this devotion
He paints using pain, but now exhausted this emotion
He’s scrawled the renaissance and sketched industrial revolutions
But nothing ever changes, that’s the trouble with evolution
He’s tried to sculpt smiles, but there’s a sort of consumption
Behind every smiling face lies war and corruption
Forced grins wipe across his animate effigies
Tearing each canvas aggressively, it’s been tragic for centuries
Sadness the recipe, now it seems he has lost hope
Bristles in blue ink, he brushes in broad strokes
He wants colourful characters who breathe compassion
But his picturesque landscapes are ravaged by disease and famine
Each manifestation is shaken by this miserable curse
Is it inside him? An internal inferno with a visceral thirst?
Perhaps the only reason he works, is cause he’s felt depression
Making pictures and sculptures out of self-expression
If his feelings are left living in this hell, everything would melt
Maybe he assembles his art in the image of himself
Each piece with a purpose of releasing his frustration
And the worst part about it…it’s us, we are his creations.
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