The paint dripped off my face and hands.
A swirl of blues, reds, and incandescent white.
No, this was not a portrait of America,
but a bloated caricature of the carcass of humanity.
The portrait showed the swelled belly of Mother Love, giving birth to the aborted children who grew from her rotten ovary.
The children crawled out, prepared to stake their claim on a fallacy of civility.
Ravenous mouths opened wide as the children slithered from the womb of the mother who loved them best.
The portrait was a metaphor--a masterpiece.
Inspiration struck me as I realized that I was one of these children.
I crawled out of my mother with the best intentions,
but could only create a cacophony of discontent.
If our Father could have only known that his seed would become polluted and give birth to my abomination on canvas, would he have reconsidered his part in the procreation of wayward youth?
My creation stares back at me.
An insoluble mixture of disgust washes into my skin,
and it wants to peel.
The picture deserves to be burned;
a glorification of stick-up kids sucking on apple cores.
What happened to evolution?
What happened to hope?
Hope, She moved out a long time ago.
The picture is proof.