Vincent Van Gogh dined on yellow paint,
trying to drown his insides with happiness,
sunshine or maybe trying to paint his
thoughts into sunflowers and wheat fields
Paint is toxic thought, but so are people.
So in a way, I understand the Why
because I know many toxic people and
they usually outnumber the sunflower fields,
so he painted the toxins onto canvas'
but even his pain was ridiculed.
So I wonder how he felt when he picked up
the gun; he probably felt hollow and heavy
like an anchor stuck at the bottom of the deep, deep sea.
If he lived today would he have asked for help?
No, he probably wouldn't
because the monsters in his head
expressed itself through the pain of the brush
and the pain of the brush turned into beauty
and beauty into emotion and emotion into
static feeling and feeling into the seeds of
creativity and I suppose the weight of the
tree that came from the seeds became
too heavy with the fruits of dreams handpicked
by the Devil and the Lord whom plated
an ancient lullaby while pulling on the branches;
like a wishbone that could change
the melody of time.
Vincent, oh Vincent.
My red-haired God of Sunflowers, painter of the truth
and sky and eater of yellow paint,
as you stand in waves of golden wheat fields,
gun in paint stained fingers, can you hear
the eccentric all of the canvas brush? Or perhaps you feel the hands of your
demons slip into your own as you cut
down your tree of beauty, tree of pain,
tree of Godly play with a single manmade bullet under the