mad

they call it art.they call it creation.pixels puked by zeros and ones,no trembling hand,no cigarette ash falling on the canvas,no whiskey-soaked regretsdripping into the paint. it spits out beauty like a whore’s smile,perfect, cold, untouched,not a single scar beneath the surface,not a damn thing behind those eyes. I stare at it,trying to feel something,anything.but it’s…