In 1852, an artist named Luc Maspero threw himself from the fourth floor of a Parisian hotel Leaving a suicide note that read: "for years I have grappled desperately with her smile, I prefer to die."
Then in 1910, one enamored fan came before her solely to shoot himself As he looked upon her Napolean crushed ******* her. She has broken a lot of heart Men have died loving her.
Last week Mona Lisa walked out of her frame And out of the Louvre Museum Straight to the terrace of the tallest builiding of Paris and cried.
The world is smudged with oil now Paris streets smell of smoke and warm colours. My mother knows nothing about mona lisa And neither does my father.
But he steals some of the colour from mona lisa's cheeks And put them across my mother's everytime he pronounces her name Like it is the only word his tongue has ever known, Like it is the only colour his eyes have ever seen.
Somedays, he steals stars from Gogh's starry night. "A good lover is a good thief" he says.
I wonder probably the Italian man who stole Mona Lisa wanted to put some colour across his wife's cheeks Or he just wanted to steal that smile.
Maybe his wife had left him Or yellowed Or died
Maybe his wife was a bad lover And he, a good thief.
Maybe his wife was a good lover And he, a bad thief Who went gaga over Lisa.
What I want to say is, This poem is standing on the fourth floor, Of the same Parisian hotel, With a suicide note in one hand Smuged with oil and warm colours, And pistol in other.
This poem is the terrace of the tallest building of Paris. This poem is Mona Lisa crying at 3am uncolouring herself while trying to forget French And a thief trying to rob the colours and stars, And a half asleep world smudged with oil and smoke
Which is to say, This poem is a poor attempt to be everything, But anything about you Wondering what would be the first sentence of Mona Lisa if she ever walks out
Would it be, "Where is Vinci?" Or, "I wish To run away?"