Blindfolded, I make frail works of art
God looks at me and laughs at me
I run to the precipice, faster and faster
I know, I'm about to fall
They don't know, they don't think
They know nothing of victory
They know nothing of defeat
To be popular one must be a mediocrity
Life has always poppies in her hands
Beautiful winged butterfly
How long do you have left to live?
Once I was like you, but now I feel like
Evil
Nobody loves my perfection
So I hide myself in my work of art
I see myself naked and fragile
And make fun of you, blind creatures
Art, like a mirror
Like a rorschach test
Life mimics theatre
But fiction is safer
Life has always poppies in her hands
Beautiful winged butterfly
How long do you have left to live?
Once I was like you, but now I feel like
Evil
Do you want to live a mark? Yes, I do!
Will you sign with the devil? With my blood!
Are you looking for a meaning? It doesn't exist!
Art is a pain cry before death!
I will suffer for this gift of God! You'll suffer horribly!
I wanna make the grade! Are you sure?
For what is man profited if he shall gain the whole world
And lose his soul?
People look at me and realize it, my eyes have changed
Every impulse that we strive to strangle broads in the mind and poisons us
Each of us has heaven and hell in him
What the worms to the corpses, my sins to the painted image
Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might bloom
Evil is a mode through which I can realize my conception of the beautiful
The emblem of my shame
If I kill the portrait, I kill myself
