A Madness to My Method

It occurs to me that others fail my eyes in passing,
Those of more inclination partake in gestures harassing,
I've ne'er found one to approach me asking,
"What good Sir are you but casting?"

My madness is my method and my method my madness,
Invisible sources of creation feed my gladness,
Pangs of guilt for who I am, bares my sadness.
It is my curse to wear, it is such my madness.

This vision I seek is but bathed in beautiful red,
The color of love, life, and drops of weeping shed,
Scourned am I for the artist I am bred,
I have become that which is dread.

I am but a humble artist seeking to perfect a symphony divine,
This madness is of accident and yet by design,
The brush is my wand to conduct this art of mine,
For my the canvas must drinketh of the finest wine.

My madness is my method and my method my madness,
It is upon the canvas that rests their sadness,
I must paint these things, it floweth from me like a flood,
For the canvas thirsts, thirsts for their blood.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Lupar, in the year 624 AF.