This is a poem about nothing at all
and no one in particular

It's simply about my mistakes
that are an array of paints in front of me
Assorted by Roy G. Biv's rules of regulation
If I try to remove an acrylic faux pas
they won't be in order and nothing will make sense

So I guess all I can do is paint a self-portrait
using all of my colorful blunders
and attempt to make it beautiful

But I know I'm much too modern
and much too childish
for closed-minded critics to appreciate.