I am exhausted, can’t you see it,
How my eyes are so ripe with lassitude,
And you call them beautiful.
I have created too much,
And what is yet unborn wells up in me
And becomes the disease of my mind.
And you think I have become so secretive,
But what could I now say?
The things that I fashion grow so frightening,
And speak on my behalf with
And see my hand,
What you once so fondly called
The coil of my creation,
See how monstrous it has grown,
And it already shapes my famed madness,
And it is as though I was no more than hand,
Brutal instrument of my genius
That would one day smother me.
But then you remember my lips,
Which have always been so childlike,
A sensuality wholly reserved for me alone
And waiting to break.