Sad Sack of Shit

We are the blues: faces painted

in low light on a canvas of shitty

apartment floors and foreign bedrooms

where I've been up all night trying to

decide whether or not I'm still alive,

or if that sound upstairs is someone

making love or someone getting raped,

or if Van Gogh's Starry Night is sad

because he meant it to be sad

or because I want it to be sad. Please,

tell me it's his fault and not mine.