Years of wasted acrylic,
Of scattered supplies and well-worn brushes,

A collection of nameless monuments of
perfection
But all for what?

Years of spilled ink,
Of scribbles and scratches,

A heap of trashcan basketball misthrows
But all for what?

All for this.

The hope that one day,
One day someone will find your remains,
No, not your half-decomposed carcass lying in a pool of booze,
But your real remains:
The only recollection of your life that
anyone will ever see

The hope that one day,
One day someone will uncover that
collection of nameless monuments,
Or that heap of trashcan misthrows,
And see your existence as more than just
a drunken mess on the third floor of a
neglected apartment complex

The hope that one day,
You will be immortal.