I'm not a Street-Artist

I want to paint the bathroom walls
With my brains
And make it the most beautiful thing
I've ever made

More beautiful than my s****y flowers and hearts
That give company to
The depressed trignometric derivatives that I can't find
In my spiral purple notebook
That smells like the coffee spill from January

More beautiful then the slobbery words I speak
As I type what I call poetry
Which is really just my rambling brain
Like an old 1920's machine that hasn't quite kicked it

More beautiful than the songs I sing
In the car on the way home
When its dark and people can't see through my windows quite well enough
To catch glimpses of me losing my heart in songs that actually make sense

The sight of my blood on the wall sounds quite beautiful
And the chunks of bone sticking to the mounds of pureed brain seem quite amusing
And provide the perfect amounts of humor and irony to the situation
That is my blown out brains and my blown out heart that's lying on the bathroom floor