he holds my very soul
in his cold, dead hands
unappreciated and sad in his tortured life,
but a genius now--
he has my whole heart.
to love so spiritually is an act of insanity but
the red-bearded painter,
with his self-hatred and
desperation for understanding,
his thick brushstrokes that make my lungs numb
and his immortal madness,
is all i think about.
i am in love with his love for the world,
the world that laughed at him and drove him to his end.
i'd like to think that same unconditionality runs in my veins.
"i could not care less what the colors are in reality"
yellow paint for breakfast, to be happy
a gunshot to the chest for lunch, to be happy forever
i think my heaven looks a lot like his paintings:
bold and heartbreaking in the best ways,
an endless orchard and starry nights
and sunflowers on the dining room table.