I read in one of Van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo, that one day people will look at his paintings and say “he felt things deeply and tenderly”.
But tears do not pour out like his Auvers, they are hard to harvest.
I see one of his paintings and my body shakes in his short brush strokes uncontrollably. I see one of his paintings and his suns twirl in my head’s ******.
But tears do not pour out like his Auvers, they are hard to harvest
I read that in the Middle Ages, they debated on whether or not to remove female seeds, so that the child does not suffer from excess of emotions.
And tears flood his Auvers.
Hysteria is born out of the womb, I look the etymology in the eye as I hold my pen to my womb
I stab it three times, but the words are still there. I see that I still am, so I stab my heart instead….
I bleed out Art ..  Art ..  Arteries, the etymology stares me back in the lungs. My pen drops dead.