Hardly Art.

I don't create. None of this is mine.
No haunting words or blood tinged with acrylicpasteloilwatercolor.
Blank page, blank canvas, empty mind.
Pick up the pen and write, write about how I wish I could write but I can't.
Splash a canvas, relay a message: I'm fucking out of ideas.
Tell you the story of my life,
The one without color or words,
The one that you actually have to work for.
Where you write my words for me, and blend the paint into a picture in my stead.
Take my colorful swirls,
My angsty adjectives strung together to make a pretty sentence without any real meaning and
Fool yourself.
Make the mistake that my words are deep,
And let my bullshit inspire you to create your own.
Drown in my words,
Submerge in my colors
And eat my lies for breakfast.
Call me your hero, and fucking worship me.
Put my picture on your wall, and point it out to all of your friends.
Make sure they know how deep,
How brilliant my work is,
And how much it means to you.
Imitate me, emulate me, breath my words and revel in my deceit.
Live in the world you've pulled out of my false ideas.
Create a garden of color and love and music and poetry,
And I'll have had nothing to do with this.
There isn't a theme, a universal meaning behind my empty words, my canvas splatters.
What you call art, I call falsehoods.
My deception knows no bounds, and you're all so goddamn gullible.