Let’s attack this blank piece of paper.
Like killing a fly.
For the hell of it.
For the slight challenge of it.
For the thrilling spot of blood & gore.
The only trophy for quick reflexes.
Let out a bit of steam.
Drain the clogged pipes of emotion,
And intellect,
And the in-between.
Document a fleeting moment/sensation,
Before it disappears beyond recollection.
Catching the last glimpse of her ass,
Or heel,
Before the door bangs shut.
And then painting a portrait of that glimpse.
For the hell of it.
Masterpieces, mosaics, don’t matter now.
I’m getting old,
Nearing that ripe 30,
Happy just to paint portraits,
And destroy empty space.