The artist picked his inspiration.
The artist found his muse.
He fell in love with her,
But his love was refused.

Until he painted a picture so beautiful
She shed the tears of love.
He need speak no words
Through the painting she would blush.

She was a permanent solution
To a problem many artists face.
He had a troubled life,
And she put him in his place.

Their love was natural,
Their love was pure.
She too had a disease,
But he was the cure.

She would stare into his hazel eyes,
While he stared back into her blues.
It wasn't but three months,
Before they said “I do”.

The touch of her lips
Felt like heaven in his hands,
They would lock lips
For hours on end.

Her hands brought comfort,
Her smile brought joy.
She was so desirable
She was like Helen of troy.

Once dark paintings he made,
Now make the saddest person smile.
He developed a sense of positivity
It became his well known style.

But life is not a happy story,
It has no happy end,
Misery accompanies joy,
They're like two best friends.

The love was still there,
But only in his brain.  
She wanted out,
No matter the pain.

She packed up and left,
Leaving nothing behind.  
While he went out for flowers
To bring back to his lovely wife.

No note was written,
No trace of where she'd gone.
He waited for days,
Wondering what he did wrong.

They say real men cry,
So he must be the manliest of men
He felt his heart break,
And his brain snap from its stem.

He trashed his house,
He trashed his paintings.
He punched the walls
And his body began shaking.

He stabbed his work
He screamed to the sky
He fell to his knees
And began to cry.

From that day forward
He remarried to *****.
He was never a winner,
He was always meant to lose.

Once a popular painter
Because of his happy work,  
Now only paints sadness
Like he did before he found her.

When I die, dear Mother
don't give my body away
to science.

I'd rather have it given away to poetry.

I want people to cut me open
and observe
how my bones were riddled with
melancholic verses of joyful pasts.

They have to see
the scarlet of my blood was the hue
I stole from the sunsets of
wishful thoughts.

Dear Mother,
give my body away
to the art of writing:
for they have to look past
everything they have ever learned.

They must know
of how much I loved and I lost,
and how that made the twine of my ribs
a story to tell.

I want to give you every single broken part of me
not so you could place my broken pieces into place
but so you can see the scars on my rib cage and the ruins in my heart

I want to be intertwined, you within me
not to feel the momentary glimpse of heaven
but for us to envelope each others bodies
filling empty creases

I want to dissolve into your chest
not to rest my mind and forget the days strife
but to feel your heart beating on my mind
creating our own rhythm

I want to live under your bed sheets
not to hide from the world encompassing us
but to create our own kingdom
where our memories will live