Not a Masterpiece

I painted a portrait of my soul

on a McDonalds napkin, with my blood.

It looked like Van Gogh's starry night

swirled, dark, distorted,

beautiful –

so I squeezed it inside my bloody fist

then tossed it in the urinal

and pissed on it

because I know I'm not

a masterpiece.

I'm just a drunk

punching mirrors in empty restrooms

at 1 in the morning,

leaving philosophical quotes inside the stalls

with a red sharpie

among the crudely drawn penises

and the phone numbers

of desperate whores.

But I suppose

that after years of doing this

someone taking a shit had to have noticed

what I left

for him to see,

and sat there for a while

thinking

about the beauty of life

and what it all really means

after finally seeing through the cocks and cunts

that plague the walls of the world,

then wiped himself

of all the shit

and walked out

inspired.

I am an artist

not a masterpiece.

And that’s exactly how

I want it to be.