I sit on the throne of creativity, and yet my illness controls me

Violent, Hedonistic brush strokes protrude my canvas and mind

Longing warm, meaty flesh like great white sharks, the brush strokes

Tear me away from sane flesh, and drag me to the horrors of contaminated meat

Never allowed and freedom under the hands of my illness, I’ve created an escape route, for master knows not what I do

These crows, these thick, thin, heavy black crows, they are mine

Mine to have, hold, follow, and control

In my control I have told them, “Carry me away, for my master knows not what I do. Take me away, for this shall be the last painting I do.”

So just as my master completes his task

Spilling hazardous oils into my ocean of talent,

Forcing me to rush and ravish the piece,

I shall begin my plans, in reaching for my only sigh of relief

Adjacent to my dark paints and sickly thin brushes lies the key to the crow’s chariot

After master abandons me, alone I will remain in the fields, on my high throne

Alone I shall unpack that special key, on my throne

Alone I shall unload the bullets of that sigh of relief

Alone on my throne of creative insanity is where I shall die

Where my master can no longer bother me