Someone said that having secrets was like holding an invisible box close to your chest. Nobody can get close and they can't see why.

It's in the ******* way.

I overturned my box, papers all tumbling out--you could've picked up any one and asked a question.

You said nothing, upturning like a fish. Belly-up boy.

I picked softly at your lip, finding a tattoo on the inside of your lip.
It says "*****" but it might as well have said "YOU'RE STUPID" to me.

I tried to pull any information I could about it out of you.
I got nothing, like *** from a stone.

She, Rachel, was mentioned in passing,
In a letter addressed to his brother, Theo.
She was just a girl that he had maybe loved.
Maybe more than loved. he didn't really know her,
But we would later learn how far he would go.
What's more than loved? felt possessive towards?
Felt protective of? idolized? worshipped?
These all sound unbalanced.
Some people enjoy that passion.
The yellow house crumbled underneath of it.
That unbalance must be balanced.
Somehow, someway.
It can balance the world.
It can scare you to death.
It can push people away.
In time, it did all of these things.

He lived where tulips grow as rows of rainbows
And beards in winter kept his face warm and orange.
Where the water rests high above his head.
Where windmills turn to mill the fields of wheat.
Influenced by spirituality found in potatoes
Being consumed under dim light.
Influenced by the subtly curved right angles of elderly woman
Hunched over, farming the famished fields.
Repeatedly painting vases of turning souls, tournesol.
Influenced by color as we don't tend to notice,
Influenced by starlight behind a cypress night,
Influenced by the ideals of an eastern world and
Almond blossoms against a blue sky.
He was mad. a genius.
A man outside his time.
He gave her his ear; the whole thing,
Except for a partial earlobe.
He put it in a box for her
And delivered it personally.
Hoping she would listen.

At least thats what i like to think.
'Cause why the **** else would you cut
Your **** ear off and give it to someone
You only know from a distance?
Maybe it was just to hear he voice.

When all around you saw darkness,
you gazed at the stars.

Everyone wants to paint their pain,
but only you, Vincent,
channeled that awful torment
into beauty
immaculate and sublime;
only you, dear Vincent
saw the beauty in the shoes, the bedroom, the weeds, the washers,
only you saw the beauty when it wasn't pretty.

To suffer is human.
but
to find ecstasy in the ordinary
and transform the banal into the magical
is something only you could do,
my dearest Vincent.

Merci;

all alone, listening to the radio
trying to find the song that caught you
trying to find the song that caught me
trying to find the song that caught us

I was never this sad
I was never this stressed
I tried to see the clearing
should have just asked for spacing

Now I have to wander and wonder
all alone, deserted by you, and your
pieces of letters, pieces of songs, pieces...
pieces of you that you have left for me

What was that for?

In a spur of curiosity, I read about Vincent Van Gogh
His life, death, and all that lay between
And in stumbling upon the knowledge of my sudden interest
I see that his last words were,

"This sadness will last forever."

The ache of them resonates all too well and
an overwhelming sensation of familiarity fills the cavity of my chest

I think about all the things that could of been said and
decide none of them would probably be sufficient to save him
But I still mourn the unspoken

If only I had the chance to tell him
No, it won't

If only I knew him to say
No, it doesn't

This sadness is not permanent, I promise
Yes it remains,
Yes it is still there always, living comfortably in the shadows of our figures
But you learn to see past it
I wish I could tell him that permanence does not exist
That it is an idea man-made
And we are simply living for today

It's funny, how someone who created so much beauty could not find any in himself
In painting a future, ending seemed more promising than hope
So in that wheat field his chest kissed the bullet of a relvover
And he walked patiently towards death

Van Gogh,
Didn't anybody tell you it gets better?
Didn't anyone say that even if it doesn't, you can?

Van Gogh,
Don't you know that nothing lasts forever?
That we are merely existing to make it to tomorrow?

Vincent,
I know this world can be cruel
I know that eventually flowers turn to dust and the sky turns black at dusk but even you could see stars in darkness
You made an entire galaxy out of the night and we are still finding ways to admire its beauty

Vincent,
I know the sun can be harsh some days
I know the air can be too cold for motivation on others
I know sometimes getting out of bed can be a battle with yourself, seeming impossible
I know how it feels to be heavy with the weight of too much
And I am sorry that you couldn't bare it all

But this sadness wasn't made to last forever
Flowers will regrow and bloom again even brighter than before
The moon still shines against a dim canvas
Winter is only temporary and the gloom will pass when the seasons change
Before you know it spring will be here

I wish you could have stayed to see it come,
It is the only certainty in this eternity.