"The urge to destroy is also

an urge to create", said

some artist, paint spilling

from unsealed fingertips,

the brush left unattended,

drowning in the murky depths

of the water can, swirling

colors, mixing, mixing, seeping

into the soul, of the paper,

of the mind. Wait, does

the mind have a soul or does

the soul have a mind of its own?

Does it think or feel as

its own entity?

Shots disappear as the night

wanes and my soul and mind mix

into one huge splatter of paint.