[Intro - slow, haunting fingerpicked acoustic guitar, very raw] [A My Artwork production by @badmunk] [Vocals: Intimate, whisper-soft, eerie indie folk style like Finneas] Cadmium red. Ivory black. Once I paint it, I can never take it back. [Verse 1 - sung barely above a whisper, right in the ear] I set up the easel in the dark of the room. Mixing the pigments to capture the gloom. The landlord who evicted my mother last May. I painted his lungs a decrepit, ashen grey. The next morning he coughed up a terrible flood. And I knew that my bristles were dripping with blood. I painted a fracture on the bully's right arm. A stroke of the brush to deliver the harm. [Pre-Chorus - guitar plucks harder, discordant notes] Every stroke is a symptom, every shade is a curse. I'm putting the universe into reverse. I'm playing at God with a palette of oil. Watching the lives of my enemies boil. [Chorus - gentle but incredibly sinister] The canvas bleeds when I press it too hard. Leaving the innocent completely scarred. I stretch out the linen, I tighten the frame. Whispering a terrible, suffering name. I am My Artwork, the master of fate. Painting the world with a beautiful hate. [Verse 2 - rhythmic tapping on the guitar body, vocals slightly louder] The power is heavy, it’s rotting my brain. I’m terrified of the artistic domain. I look at the mirror, exhausted and thin. Realizing the darkness is under my skin. I can't be trusted with this kind of might. I have to extinguish the studio light. [Bridge - guitar stops, just the sound of striking a match] [Spoken word, echoing slightly] I sit at the stool. I paint my own face. Perfect realism. Every flaw. I pick up the turpentine. I soak the canvas. And I strike the match. [Outro - frantic, chaotic acoustic strumming that slowly dies out] [Vocals sung while gasping for air] The edges are burning! (The heat on my face!) I'm turning to ash in this terrible place! My fingers are crumbling, my vision goes blind! Leaving the easel and the horror behind! The canvas bleeds... and now so do I. Watch the artwork... die. [Sound of paper turning to ash, a single acoustic string snapping, wind blowing] [End]
