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.