I pushed her away, or so I tried.
Blocked out, pushed far, where she should hide.
Yet everywhere I turn, she lies,
Like an ever-present parasite, unconfined.

This Golden Calf, they kowtow and pray,
Her artwork and words are the truth, they blindly say.
They lift her high, like a shining lie,
And turn to me, with expectant eye.

"Join us," their sheep gazes plead,
"Worship our prophet, help sow her seed."
"Bow down to our queen," they say, as I cringe,
They're just her little puppets in her venomous fringe.

What holy grace does she possess?
Just a showoff artist, a high and mighty mess,
Her art and words, apparently something grand,
But I see the flaws, and no one understands.

They rave about her hypocritical painted lines,
Her "lovely" drawings, her "grand" designs.
But I just see an insignificant hand,
Deceitful paints and pencils from where I stand.

She's not special, not even a bit good,
Her annoying pictures just fill me with a bad mood.
Just lines and colors, flaccid and thin,
Baseless sculptures, a boring spin.

I'm tired of her, in every way.
I just wish that she would go away.
Fall from prominence, like a wave's crash,
Reduced to dust, like crumbled ash.

Oh, what a joy that would impart!
A freedom for this spiteful heart.
I'd buy cake and ice cream, colors so bright,
To celebrate her downfall through the night.

A sweet feast, a joyous release,
That thought alone will be my endless peace,
A cruel thought, yes, I know it's true,
But, everything about her, I am through.