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

of gold.

 

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

yellow

yellow

sun.