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Leah Oct 4
Yellow wasn’t always my favourite colour, but I once read that Vangogh swallowed yellow paint in an effort to know happiness;
      so I chose to be that for people.
You could chew me up and spit me back out and I’d still shine for you.

But when the skies are overcast,
and the clouds weep;
and you hear the thunder roll in,
I’ll be the yellow paint you swallow.
Only this time, the happiness stays,
and you don’t have to cut your ear off
in order to win my heart.

I may be my own yellow now, but I’ll be the colour of sunshine for you too.
fray narte Jul 5
you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.

but then again,
yellow was the color
of the july sunsets we missed
when we were puppeteering
the glitches in our words.
it was the color of autumn —
its night, when we first made out
and left permanent scratches
on the hood of your daddy's car,
its leaves - a deep feuille morte;

like the scent of my hair from yours.

it was the color
of the light —
back when we lived
for early morning kisses
on coffee-stained tables,
when the world was still asleep.
it was the color of the first sunray
that crept through my blinds
after two days of raining —
darling, that was day 4
after you left.

it was the color of the rose petals —
a mess on the floor
as we listened to a bulk
of lonely playlists —
love, it would take corrosive agents
to dismantle the songs —
and probably the memories too,
that unlike you,

to leave.

but then,
you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.

but then,
it was under the bouts of madness
that he ate the paint,
thinking that happiness could be ingested.

and darling you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.
fray narte Jun 26
I'm drunk and the skies are a little hazy, and the stars, a little like Van Gogh's, but tonight, I'm still an astronaut angling metaphors from the mesophere and you're still the moon to which these poems orbit around.
James R May 5
Night stirs, stars surging
in the hushed & vigorous
That void, ambient
in its design, holds artistry
and grace. Stars burst through veil
and shadow,
highlighting an ebony spire,
whose apex threatens
with beauty beyond
Their juxtaposition, a dance,
of heat and light and dark.
a poem inspired by Van Gogh's A Starry Night
did not compose
in silence.
Silence composed him
into a symphony
flocked by clefs
and mobbed by notes
melting the clouds of sin
into raindrops of kin.

Van Gogh
did not paint
in silence.
Silence painted him
into a mural
with swirling clouds
brightly blazing
in the evening fields
of amber pain.

did not write
in silence.
Silence wrote him
into a fiction
deeper than the misery
of his midnight dreary
deeper than the fathomage
of his kingdom by the sea.
Afia Nov 2018
I sprinkled sunflower petals in the warm water,
to make it gold.
Then dipped my body quietly in the bathtub,
to wash my tainted soul.  
The morning light peeked through the lemon coloured glass,
while the fading fate dissolved in the pearly waves of my lash.
My lifted hand reached for the sunlight,
the feeble fingers swayed like dandelions.
A swollen gaze perched on the broken mirror,
a burning sensation impregnated my chafed lips; turning them bitter.
The beauty they preach about is not divine,
nothing in this world stays sublime.
The saffron tinted ancient walls,
kissed the amber tiled floor
Everything fire; everything gold,
yet no power can assuage the murkiness of my soul.
My dear Van Gogh how could you think?
that the yellow, if you eat, will lift your spirits?
Van Gogh's work has always inspired me and his health issues are relatable to an extreme end for me. Most of the time I feel like he is the muse while I create my work.
May Elizabeth Nov 2018
Your face more blurred
Than the paint
On my palette

My colours reflect
And patience
Yours reflect

The same pain
Inflicted on you
By the world
Inflicted on me
By your hands
           More intoxicated
Than your breath.
This is inspired by Van Gogh's pain palette that is in a glass case in an exhibit at the Rijks museum in Amsterdam.
Corey Oct 2018
one day. one day it will all be better. you know what they say: it’ll all be okay in the end. if it’s not okay, than it’s not the end

Darkness seeps from the walls
A low rumble heard from afar
Constant, and never ending
As the darkness pools on the floor

This deep, dark sadness,
the debilitating pain,
the absence of a
will to move

Darkness creeps up my skin
A low mumble I try to speak
Constant, and never head
As the darkness begins to drown me

This deep, dark sadness
the debilitating pain,
the weight of my head
resting in my hands

Darkness eats at my thoughts
A low grumble of displeasure
Constant, and never ceasing
As the darkness laughs at my pain

This deep, dark sadness
the debilitating pain,
leaves me waiting to arrive
at eternity’s gate
van gogh
ate something toxic
in hopes of becoming

while others
simply sit around
being sad.

- v.m
imma use the inktober prompt list for my poetry as well. if you want to see my actual inktober sketches, go to @eleanorafelix on instagram ✨.
Pyrrha Aug 2018
We always talks about putting our broken pieces back together
Or we speak of mending another with tape and glue
Like stitches that won't undo
But putting the pieces back together wont make them new
Why don't we ever think about picking up each others broken parts
And placing them where ours once were
Instead of fixing a puzzle with missing pieces
Why don't we become art
And fill each other with beautiful parts?

All that you find broken about yourself
All that I find rotten within my hollow shell
Are colorful pieces to complete a work of art
If you take some of me and make it beautiful
Then perhaps one day I too could see the beauty I betray
I'll do the same for you as I collect these magnificent additions
To the masterpiece that I make of myself
One day we will become Mona Lisa and The Starry Night
Not only will we be the art we will become the artists
As grand as DaVinci, as unique as Van Gogh
We will fill this world with our broken art
And make others learn that there is beauty in every splintered part
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