Bullshit

My Poetry is shoddy and my wordings crude. Do not expect my words to Rhyme or my verses to make sense.

Art has been torn down

To the point of primitive

Where it doesn't have to make sense

Or anything at all

Now any fool can bring "art" into existence

Or at least thats my thesis

Cause I refuse to believe the alternative

That my psyche does not delve as deep

As the fools that make "art" for keep

Is it possible that I

Have not a pretentious eye

Enough to admire paint splashed upon canvas?

Am I not savvy in the art of fatuousness

To understand the rubbish

"Poets" fabricate?

If so then

Lend me your eyes

that I may pay tribute

cause from my vantage

it all looks like waste

Of paper and cotton

acrylic and ink

of graphite and wood

of thinking and trees

Lend me those

unenlightened eyes

Because right now… All I can see.

Is bullshit.

Author's Note

This is... Well. What it is.