PISUHA My Canvas

Beloved PISUHA is in place…
When reality hits the bottom — art remains my only way to survive

Cold paint lies on the white, torn canvas
A wild red thread weaves into thick ink
My voice inside rises to its full, frightening height
It demands to tear the silence and pay for the right to breathe

My pulse tightens. Behind my back the stone breaks
I throw a roaring flame into every note I make

I tear this stage! And blood seeps through the paint
My curtain falls, glass shatters into dust
With my sound I burn out the fake mask's taint
I survived where others were forever lost

I gently drive a needle under my bare bone
Drawing thick and shimmering honey on black paper
A blind, ruthless anger knocks on my torn cosmos
But I choose the chord that leads me through the chaos

My pulse tightens. Behind my back the stone breaks
I throw a roaring flame into every note I make

I tear this stage! And blood seeps through the paint
My curtain falls, glass shatters into dust
With my sound I burn out the fake mask's taint
I survived where others were forever lost

The heavy easel flies to splinters from furious notes
I strike the string, scattering wild wind and white salt
My inner voice dictates the sharpest turn I know
I hammer my primitive pain into these pictures' vault

Empty palette. A deaf moon descends from the sky
A cold mirror catches my quiet, broken moan
Art is the door behind which I'm no longer alone
I strike the chords, driving reality into a dreamed lie

I tear this stage! And blood seeps through the paint
My curtain falls, glass shatters into dust
With my sound I burn out the fake mask's taint
I survived where others were forever lost

I redraw this world while you sleep