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