Existentialism

Brush strokes filled the page.
His hands shook as he skimmed the brush against the canvas.
No expression.
No image.

He aimlessly mixed colors together;
         he threw the palette to the floor.
The color wasn’t perfect.

Could this be art?
It looked like a child drew it.
But no one would ever know or appreciate
         the sweat and tears he put into those brush strokes.
He called it his masterpiece.