blood on my hands

father, forgive me, for i am an artist. the blood on my hands is made of red paint and the knives were all drawn in HB graphite pencil. allow me to lay my arms bare and toil for the ink in my skin, repent for all i have created. anti-matter consumes me. were, would, was. my crime is in the form of a novel, my punishment CAPITAL. quiet- theyll hear you. theyll tear you to shreds. dont look now, just think- think of all the things they wish you were. the message must be pure, for if they see the dirt under your nails and the bags under your eyes, they will mark you a sinner. art is not born from pain, but from purity. life should imitate art, never the other way around. but i shall weave a tapestry of my sins and color it with my blood.


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Crimson Sorrow

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I love this


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