n0t a waste 0f space.

create my own gods: a slam poem

I took a gun to my head and shot a bullet but I wasn't dead

because the bullet was paint and it splattered my mind 

and I shot ink-filled guns and rifles and I never died. 

I'll make myself into art with my paint-covered heart

but the black acrylic's my soul and the red is my blood

the blue is the oxygen toxifying and oxidizing me

and I'm art on the city's crumbling bricks

with homeless bums being judged by briefcases

and people will walk by me and say I'm art

as the paint drips from my broken heart

but it's okay because pain is art and you glorify what you don't understand.

I spin and twirl my twisted mind and you clap and cheer for my demise

and no one understands I am a canvas for my suicidal mind

and I don't believe in the afterlife but I desperately want to

because no, no this can't be it

this can't be all I'm not just here on this wall

as paint and art that people enjoy 

before dollars became gods and guns became toys.

I'll make up a faith and follow some god

I'll believe in some heaven because this can't be all I'm here for 

this can't be all I'll be 

if loneliness is this life then I don't want it to be me

but I can't end it here if I don't believe

so I'll find a religion and I'll make myself art

I'll create my own gods from my broken heart

but they all go spiraling out in fiery flames and none of my idols

ever stay, because I am broken

and they were made by me so my art is flawed 

and my faith isn't really 

anything.