We all want to leave something behind to be remembered by,
leaving behind a piece of our souls that will live on forever.
Simply to lie to the dark python and to make his grip loosen
around our figure so that we may continue for another day.
We tell the raven not to worry and that all will be done,
even if just to avoid one more painful pinch on our ears.
Through each day, we build our walls and dams higher
our self-preservation is our only shared deity that lives on.
We paint, we write, we sculpt, we build, we draw, we sing
our emotions and hope that we are not alone in how we feel.
Each form of art is self-whittled from our own ambiances,
it is the only method of self-mutilation that is celebrated.
Art is a misunderstood practice of sacrifice to one of the
many deities that both break and raise up each individual.
One creation is never enough, the passion from this ritual
is more addictive than anything that will leave a scar.
When we see marks on a flesh canvas from a blade or needle
our first thoughts go to the all-powerful configuration of Phobia.
Then there are the smudges left on skin from a brawl with
various obstacles left in front of one who is possessed by Madden.
Solutions for such immortals come in various procedures
some will consume it and leave it to sit in their bellies to be forgotten.
Others will exhaust themselves until their gods and demons
become the subject used to communicate with another.
Whether an immortal is considered to be the white bird
guiding us to shore from a long journey on the seas.
Or the feared creatures of the deep waiting to take away
the breath that separates the living from those benumbed.
The scaly monster with breath foul enough to generate tears
waiting under the bed of a child, is the shadow that follows
a lonely lady to the safety of her car on a dark cold night.
Phobia can be the form of everything we desire and dread.
Those who are not held hostage by the mortal coil
will decide who is allowed to have the pleasure of serving them.
Some masters and mistresses are exclusive and private
each member needing to constantly self-sacrifice to appease.
They are the ones smelling as sweet as vanilla forgiveness
without compliment, will taste of burnt biscuits soaked in soured milk.
It isn’t the exclusive clubs by remarkables we desire to be a part of,
rather than the belief they will protect us from their sinister siblings.
Not every soul has the abilities to see their gods and demons,
and even fewer have the ability to share them with the rest of us.
The drying ink on the canvas, the cooling of the clay captures
a fraction of the spiders crawling and breeding in our skulls.
Our hands are covered in the makings of our gifts to the spirits
we feel a moment of relief, until it comes time for the presentation.
Phobia replaces our blood with boiling mercury before directing us
to Madden who sews thorns into soft flesh before sending us to Anguish.
Anguish who leaves us stuck with only our tools of soul carving for comfort
trapped in our minds surrounded by the growling of unknown traumas.
Once a day coming in to ask for a new form of morbid masterpiece
leaving unsatisfied and beating you until you lie in a pool of self-loathing.
Growing desperate, it is time for your greatest creation, something
no one will ever expect and will leave the deity in wonderful worship.
Taking flesh to be canvas, bone to be the frame, and blood the ink,
ripping out the heart for more ink and color, it is almost done.
Giving up every part of yourself for the greatest and the last piece,
waiting with a smile on your face with Anguish approaches your cell.
The priceless look on their face matches every cent worth of your creation,
finishing up with placing small accents of your mind and heart on the frame.
In the center of it all is the last remaining bit of silvery soul left in the pot,
no longer a person, you are now your own masterpiece for the world to see.
Leaving Anguish, Phobia, and Madden as your forgotten muses
when you leave behind your self-mutilation, when you leave your art in the world.