I live for what you would call filth and disgust nSomeone's loss of blood will power and light my veins nI will paint the colour of red all over your pitiful world nI have the knowledge of making art of your pathetic body nnA precise stab in your spine and your body is paralysed nBut your vision still works, you can witness the pain nYou could only see it as cut wounds, I consider it art, painted in the flesh nA quick snap and the lights are out. nnThe absence of skin and the tearing of flesh nPeople will be chocked by my new exhibition nTen different pieces of agonising death nI'm in position, I'll re-create what's left. nnYou may think my work is done with rage and hatred, nBut you are so wrong; it's done with passion nI carefully select what will be my organic canvas nMankind need to discover the beauty of agony. nnWhat am I becoming? nWhat have I become? nnHere I am, becoming the final work nA burning self-portrait nWhy am I becoming what I am? nnYou seem to find my expressive art so chocking nThose who discover my work never really seem to appreciate them nWatch me perform this masterpiece. Nothing gets more real nA signature written in blood nnWhat am I becoming? nWhat have I become? nHere I am, becoming the final work nA burning self-portrait nWhy am I becoming what I am?