If a firework exploding In an endless black sky Can be painfully gorgeous, Can a glass bottle Exploding on a broken sidewalk Be a poem written by the cosmos? To what extent is a mess, really just art? Iām dying every day, But if I died enough, And I let all the things I hold onto with white knuckles Die along with me, Could I find myself Naked like I was The moment of my birth? Would I clean up that sidewalk, Or find a more broken one, Just to smash another bottle on? If I am to make art, I must make a mess. If I am to live, I must die over and over again. And I must find something worth anything, To get through this evening.