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.”