I am modern art.

People love to tell me what I am,

What I stand for,

And what I can never be.

Like they have a clue

Like they have the right to rape me with their Wikipedia-based art degrees.

“I could have made you,” they whine,

“I too could have just thrown paint at a blank canvas and made you with my own two hands.”

“But you didn’t,” I respond, “And that’s the difference.”