Herder of my own fate

I told myself I could be an artist.  
Control myself while tearing apart my canvas.
 
But then, I became the son of Saturn in Goya's walls.
Never innocent, never triumphant.  
Only condemned for all eternity to the pain and suffering of the torments of its creator.
 
My body was that canvas,
Hiden behind lies and shame.  
 
My scars the terrifying and misjudged masterpiece
made from the sum of human wretchedness.
 
But who am I,
To condemn you for murder
When I am already this fate herder,
Who in portions foresee his own funeral destiny,
His wretchedness,
His resistance  
And his sad unallied existence?