The Lecherous Blight

instagram: @emfernandesart

You don’t want the creator—

you want the carcass.

Gutted. Stripped.

Hung on your wall like a trophy

while we rot in silence.

You feed on our visions

then spit at our value.

You love the work,

but you loathe the cost.

We're summoned like slaves.

Paid like pests.

We are the sacred tools twisted into your currency.

And you dare to call us ungrateful?

We bring gods to life with broken hands.

You bring delays, excuses, and blank promises.

Your gratitude ends where your invoice begins.

You want royalty-free?

Try soulless.

You want passion on tap?

Go bleed for it.

We are not hobbies.

We are not favors.

We are rituals, thunder, blood-inked spells.

You don’t collaborate—you consume.

You take the fire, then piss on the ashes.

But the beast remembers.

And the beast is awake.

No more chasing.

No more begging.

No more invoices tossed into voids.

You stole from the altar—

now the altar screams back.

This isn't a warning.

It's a curse wrapped in poetry.

A spell sealed with every drop we gave

without being paid, credited, or seen.

You’ve fed on us for too long.

Now choke on what you’ve taken.

“We are not your endless stream of creation. We are the damnation you’ve summoned.”