As I stood on the pulpit

Confused, quivering—

I had never tasted fear so sudden, so unforgiving.

The crowd could see me trembling,

I could have dropped dead,

Or let a single tear escape instead.

But I—

I am an artist.

I do not cry,

I bleed on paper.

They shudder at the thought of slayers,

While I—

I crave the edge of danger

As I do the heat of pleas