I painted a caricature 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 phone numbers of whores.

But I suppose
that after years of doing this
someone taking a shit had to have notice
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.