Screw the Art Teacher, I'm Not Drawing

I wipe away a tear that stains my hand black
No, this is not a tear
Not a single tear that cascades down from one's regretful gaze
But a drop of paint, bleeding from the portraits all around us
God's work is falling
And is now stained on my hand
More black falls on my now upturned face
The night sky is crying
But what is to happen to the stars?
Yes, they blur and join the sky on my hands
I start to walk along the cobblestone path, soiled with the stars
Something paints the bottom of my feet
Ah yes, the moon
I pour out the remainder of my drink and replace it with the stone's new
paint job
I laugh to myself as I carry the moon in a plastic cup
It is dark now, and harder to see
My body is drenched with shades of shades of black, white, gray, and dark
green
The grass is dissolving and the leaves fall in drops
The sky is a blank easel painted with 'what-could-have-beens'
"Why?" I ask myself, "Do people create such beautiful works of art when
they know its destiny is to become corrupted, forgotten, destroyed."
I shake my head to bring myself back to reality
I gather up my materials and throw the blank easel into the river without a
backwards glance
I look up into the falling rain and think, "God made the mistake of drawing
something so beautiful."
"Now, his work is smeared and ugly."
All I know is,
I'm not going to make the same mistake