Masquerade

Come in, little moth, beckoned with a flame
Grace us with a dance, welcome to the masquerade

Take wing, my angel, break off your chains
Rapture is a heaven where the great are not constrained
Feel how the freedom of expression liberates!
But the ebb and flow will come and go in waves
Strip away the artifice of what are you made?
A medium of blood and flesh, let the world become a stage
There's an art to war and a war to art the same
But I am not the one with which a war you want to wage
Make a weapon of the instrument you play
But if the key's predictable the signature must change
I've laid you down a canvas which shortly you will stain
With a palette of your sweat and tears coursing through your veins
Is an unconceived masterpiece, put the paint to practice
Unadulterated till your hands take action
Make crickets of the critics, all devoid of thought or vision
Unfamiliar to our labor with irreverent opinion
Plaster them with imperfect purpose
Bare yourself, draw back the curtains
Show us how tragic your story is
After all I know you've wanted an audience
Underneath your untested, unquestioned desire
Lies a disdained creator dishonesty conspires
To supplies ingenuity with ugliest conformance
Put your mask on, give us a performance

You want perfection? Lost in pursuit of it?
Take my direction, I can lead you to it
The audience is not your friend, you just love their applause
Cause an honest artist isn't what they want, better off with your mask on

Upon the curtains' closure, tell me was it all a facade, little moth?
When the masquerade is over will you keep it on or rip it off?
Do you know your part in the play?
The role for which you've been cast?
Go forth, flutter and frolic, no more keep up an act
As you become your mask, demand validation
Back for an encore, standing ovation
Dance to your heart's content with elation
The phantom just began has manifestation
The product of an operatic equation
Your ballad's become an uncensored sensation
Blessed in inception damned in creation
As you find violence your hand's motivation
Rage is a symphony, glistening with crimson
Your vigor is a gift with which you've been christened
An artistic epiphany is blissful if you listen
As the visionaries, are we ever crippled with precision
But the gravest sin committed is abandoning conviction
If you're guilty of it you'll be granted no admission
Tickets are revoked for all irrelevant opinions
Unoriginality is not a fixable condition
I've disposed of my disciples, I'm without a muse
They wore such unbecoming judgement, but I'm bound to you
My fickle inspiration might just be found in you
Little moth, you are my Songbird, now don't sing out of tune

I'm searching for the perfect harmony, but all I can find is dissonance! It's my curse, my fucking curse!

I must seduce the ear, delight the spirit
A song is reviled if no one should revere it
So I want you all, yet none at all, to hear it
I've come to love a crowd just so much as fear it
No gods or kings, only man
No divine intervention with these mortal hands
The spotlights hot and all eyes are drawn
My makeups flaking, but my smile is on

You want perfection? Lost in pursuit of it?
Take my direction, I can lead you to it
The audience is not your friend, you just love their applause
Cause an honest artist isn't what they want, better off with your mask on