A fragment:
What words can scrape this metal from my skin. I am a ****** pulp, wrecked and stretched on a canvas to your command - you the world that watch me and judge. My painter self-inflated on walls for viewers. See me yawn at the cost; only to be tossed back onto the floor. I am slowly losing my sense of humor, my sense of existence. Such is the industry, such is my life. Used once more for my art - and what is art to but a reflection of my skin; A reflection of my life within this contorted disfigured mind. Only to please, please internalize this second that is passing onto you.  You are reading me like a book. You echo my moans with such precision. You mock the very spirit of me, you human; you trapeze artist that taunt and move across my strings. What movements you make in these dizzy nights, when light reflect me off you. You will never be like me and I will never use you like you used me. I am your eating utensil.  I don’t care what you do. I am an artist. I make my living and so do you. There is no more skin to peal. This skin is raw; dry crust of my remains. I don’t feel much these days. I block you out. This is a contract of our end. You only dance to make a noise; filthy dogs.