Ugly truths are just that.
Being one who speaks in truths,
constant soul searching
of poets, most artists, really
is truly alienating.

There is expression which will
inevitably have you backed
into corner by liars. Institutionalized
if your not careful.

Who did mutilate Van Gogh's ear?
Who mutilated mine? A cleft on my left.
Simply born with it. Or so,
I've been told. There is something
deeply seeded in this. Even
foreshadowing, perhaps. Now that
truth backs me further
from ugly liars, hell bent on
twisting truth. Is it greed or
embarrassment that drives lies
we tell ourselves or others.

Vincent was lucky to have his paint.
It did the driving of his madness,
into gobbed masterpieces.

This is a lie.

He never new mastery. Questioning
his own self worth constantly.
I can only imagine him awkwardly,
standing next to his life love's,
paints, pretty maidens,
and hearing over abundantly,

"No sale."

I love the liars. It is not to
my advantage to repel
inexactness, invention, untruth.
After all, I do write. It somehow comes
with the territory. The Dutch in me
won't admit to less.

Can you count the number
of times, variance of "truth" appears here?

Clue: the answer is not seven.