You know what I hate?

Pretentious artists who dare
To call themselves artists;
Photographers with fancy cameras
Who make prints with no soul,
Sepia-tinged monstrosities
With titles more obscure than
Their talent,
Poets with vernacular so thick
No one understands that they're
Only asking for directions to the
Nearest fucking post office;

Hair dyed and tongues pierced
Eager and ready to play the part
And yet what is this crap
They keep forcing on me?

The canvas is fucking blue;
It's like staring at the
Back of my fucking eyelids
And I don't care if it's
Supposed to represent your soul
It's still a goddamn green canvas
I don't care if the single line
Down the middle represents
Heartbreak or the end of the world
It's still a goddamn red canvas
And I think it's fucking stupid.

(the inside of your head is never
One colour, rather it's a muddle
Of murkey browns and pinks
And flashes of images that change
When the music changes;
So don't fucking show me a
Yellow canvas).

Tell me about that time you found yourself -
You were standing on the corner of
46th and 7th and you saw a
Paper napkin fly out of a taxi
And it made you think about how fleeting
Life is to be washed all blue or green
Or red or something like that and then
You drew a paper napkin on a paper napkin
And hung it up over your bed
So that you'd never forget.

I'd respect you for that;
I'd call you an artist;

Artists barely acknowledge themselves as such,
They just create because it seems like
The natural thing to do;

So maybe you just see a blue canvas
But I see the ocean when I
Slather on each wave, I count each grain of
Sun when you only see yellow,
And all the love and anger in the world
To me only seems like
Red to you.

I love how art
Is not for
Artists alone;

I love how
Deep down
In our own
Shallow ways
We are all

Trying desperately
To leave our mark
On this world.