Minimalism (not mine, but something I'd like to share)

Sorry for the lack of content. Part 5 is being re-worked.

In the meantime, something that isn't mine but I feel that I should share it with my reader(s)

It's titled Minimalism, and I don't know who wrote it.

I looked at a picture, painted white with a dot
White with that black dot, and I thought
Why bother painting that black dot in the middle
The white all around it makes it seem so little
Just a little black dot all surrounded by white
And I look at this painting and think that I might
Punch a hole through the painting with the fist of my hand
And show that painting that I was a man
And It looked like it was made by a child
Who was given a paintbrush and told to go wild
But the child was challenged
and only managed to poke
the brush with the canvas with the black with the stroke.

I was going to do it when the artist walked by
Looked at my fist and the painting and asked why
I would want to destroy the dot made of paint
Saying: It's so essential, an essentially quaint expression
of essential potential in all of the people
who have a potentially small dot of their own
painted on their soul.
You see, on the white, there was a small hole
so I covered the hole with paint, which was black.
Then he turned away, and I turned back

I stared, stared, stared till the janitor came along
He saw, stopped mopping, stopped whistling his song
stopped to ask: Hey sonny, been here long? You ok?
This is rubbish, this painting. Just rubbish, I say
I talked to the artist, didn't help in the least
So i stared for a while and my anger increased
This isn't art, this white paint with a dot
It's a picture of a dot, but art it is not

The janitor nodded his head up and down
Cleared his throat, and uttered a sound
that was like an agreement, but more like a laugh
He said: sonny, you've looked at this more than I have
When I look, I don't see the white
and with that he leaned over and turned out the light

And with the light off, the dot grew and grew
Till it covered the canvas, and he said: Who knew
That in the dark, every painting looks exactly the same
Same portrait, same landscape, same romance, same shame
Could be reddish or yellowed or purpley or blue
Could be anything, cause sonny, that's what the dot turns into

He went off and he mopped, and he whistled his tune
And I left, went outside and looked at the moon
Which looked vaguely and oddly familiar that night
So familiar...a black canvas....with a dot that was white