Martyr Art
The Agonist Lyrics

Awaken, as from a tormented sleep
Wake up from a mental anguish with nervous eyes, trying to escape from the twisted, insane images displayed on the walls

with eyes anxiously looking to creep beyond this twisted dementia displayed on the walls.
Eyes search frantically for an escape from the distorted madness shown on the walls

Mysterious mindsets and ink-droplets fall.
Unknown and puzzling thoughts and ink blots fall to the ground

Muses take flight in an all out war.
The source of inspiration takes off, possibly fighting for survival

Shall I catch with open hand?
Should the artist try to grab the inspiration with an open hand?

Or let it fall and start again?
Or let it go and try to find inspiration elsewhere?

Such words burn the skin.
The comments or criticism hurt deeply

So, enter stage right, might in hand.
Enter the stage with confidence, strength and skill

Before the micro-cosm, stand.
Stand before the small world and show your work

Display my efforts, after all, don't expect them recognized.
Show what the artist has accomplished, without expecting recognition

Hourly torture, chaos ignite!
The pain and turmoil of creation are constant, and can fuel the artistic flame

Beauty and art give a sign of life.
Art and beauty are the manifestations of life and vitality

But, as Balzac and Hardy profess, the martyr will burn for her canvas.
As writers Balzac and Hardy say, the artist sacrifices much for their work

Elusive horizon, I'm not a threat.
The unknown future is uncertain, but the artist means no harm

You see, I'm for some reason always on trial.
For some reason, the artist's work is always questioned or criticized

Object of detestation – always on trail.
The artist is always under scrutiny and subject to hate

O, Solitude! With thee I dwell!
Oh, loneliness! The artist lives with it, almost embracing it

With thee I dwell in our assiduous, gated hell.
With loneliness, the artist endures in a painfully hard but focused world

Trivial – this mind and spirit world.
The realm of thoughts and feelings is insignificant compared to reality

You can't compare their worth to what is real.
The value of abstract concepts isn't equal to what's actually present

At its best, all the critics must confess, this work can outlive death – so what is real?
Art can live forever, so the reality of death is questioned

Because I can't describe half the shit I feel inside your crimes.
Because the artist can't express in words what they experience and feel because of others' misdeeds

Targeted intent eviscerating innocence.
Purposefully aiming to destroy someone's purity or lack of guilt

I swear I'm not a threat. Put down your defense.
The artist is not harmful, so the audience should stop being defensive

All I can do is watch in awe… feet raking the sand, hands bound by molten ire.
The artist can only observe in amazement as they are consumed by anger and frustration

As the broad guillotine blade sinks into the horizon, streams of burning gold burst forth from ultramarine expansive veins and reach towards me, lending heat to the air, as the Earth is sliced in half and the dividing line approaches.
As the sun sets, the artist imagines a different reality where the earth is split in two leaving only gold-drenched sky, while being burned by its warmth

For every stage turned wonderland, for every sound turned song, for every song turned experience, for every hour drawn long.
For every creative process that turns reality into fantasy, or sound into music, or music into a life experience, or hours into a lifetime

Accablées de misère en décembre, les muses se baignent en flammes. Noyées dans l'ombre elles disparaissent, attendant le divin peintre de l'Univers, le Soleil.
Burdened by misery in December, the muses bathe in flames. Drowned in the shadows, they vanish, waiting for the divine painter of the Universe, the Sun.