Confine these hands to the bedpost
so I don't paint any more damage than is done;
the pain and misery of my art
which of truth I have overcome.
Break the bones in these fingers,
and keep the knot tight so I don't escape
from the punishment I so deserve.
Shun my pleas with this tape.
Kick in cruelty, and I won't complain;
punch a hole through the canvas of my fault,
and I'll nod my head in understanding.
Lock me in the darkest corner of this vault.
Tear the evidence of my death,
the murder I beg you to commit,
so the burden dwelling heavy in my chest
will allow me rest only you can permit.
Whether I scream or cry, ignore me please.
Let me twist in the agony of this treason.
Close the door and throw the key
as I consider the source of my inspiration.
Throw away the tools; brushes,
carvers, markers, the permanent pencil.
Shred the paper, dump the dirty water,
and burn the clay on the windowsill.
Set alight the folder of my anthology;
leave me to watch my efforts burn,
and I'll expect no less than a vengeful grin
to teach me the things I'll never learn.
An apology wouldn't be enough,
but if you have any more heart than I-
a perpetrator unworthy of forgiveness-
be rid of the portrait thriving in lie.
In mercy, don't abandon me with this picture-
an image of my sins to haunt my soul.
I'd rather die than suffer this torment-
the guilt of an artist who plagiarized and stole.
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