For a long time now, you have needed help;

You've grown up in sin;

Cut off your own ear, made you yelp;

Hurt yourself always, could let no one in;

"You're insane," they said;

You laughed out loud;

Inside you felt dead;

Yet nothing can hurt a man who's too proud;

Your sadness consumes you;Within and without;

Your canvas is where your mind goes to flee;

Paint splattered about;

Your colors are bright;

Your subjects are happy;

Your paintbrush holds light;

Inspiring both king and cabbie;

Stars march in swirling blues;

But you stay in your bedroom;

Nights encapsulating in glittering hues;

Your canvas shows no sign of your all-encompassing gloom;

None are as eccentric and unhappy as you, Van Gogh;

The colors around you penetrate your heart;

So you write to me, a fellow artist, because you say I might know;

Why do you loathe this world, but make it your art?

My poor fellow artist;

How little you know;

You indeed paint where your heart is;

But your letter claims not so;

An artist you are truly;

You desire ingenuity with your methodical madness;

Making even the ordered heavenly spheres tactfully unruly;

Yet never have I seen someone with such sadness;

Take or leave my words;

My wisdom I'll bestow in brief upon you;

And your sad strokes will fly away with the birds;

Make curiosity the center of all you do;

Genius here only caught up in a frenzy;

They said the same of the author of this letter;

All the better is where I see you to soon be;

Casting off problems holding you like a fetter;

Open your eyes;

Take everything in;

There's passion to realize;

Disregard your sin;

The world is a canvas, an inspiring song;

Forget your sadness you claim in your heart;

Dispose of it and let your talent move along;

Become enraptured, and instead let the world make you its' art.