A Story of guilt.
Not for him, for us.
Vincent.

Strokes and flicks,
Glides of guilded golds
Hushed in the Blues,
Innocence in the Greens;
Boldly infused oils
Spilling out on a canvas;
A legacy built on
Sorrow. Toil. Turmoil.
Who with dark indents on a page shaded in
Shadows showed
Work. Work, work,
Constant work.
A Starry Night’s muse.
All the while cowards saying they always
Knew,
Always loved,
Always loving
Vincent.

Flowers, cadmium and saffron
Exuberant, ebullient, sanguine
No indication of suffering
A joyous view upon a wall.

Swirling clouds amongst an unilluninated sky
Observed as mundane by some
But the beacon of light is sought
by those who are attentive.

Self portraits, an array of them
Each with a hostile expression
The carefully etched, ageing lines
The anguish, unbeknownst to most.

A ****** of crows in a macabre sky
A transition from radiant to sombre
An unnoticed caution
that the artist would soon be no more.

A madman, tortured and doomed
departed this world with the belief
That he had accomplished nor achieved nothing
An inconsequential person.

Receiving a belated recognition -
If only it had been sooner.

today i felt the rush
of a sharp
aching
tender
deep
hopeless
night
from which there bloomed
a pain so insane
i spent a day putting
it all away, shoving
crying, sobbing, sniffing
oh, and it felt like killing
an old dear friend,
putting a bullet in
my brain ,
in my chest
and i could not breathe
it hurts now
but in a way
i feel free
in such a torn way;
paper crushed and
shredded
nothing left
in the search of
sanity.

The world told you I was dead,
They cry every twenty ninth, calling out my name---
"Vincent! Dear Vincent!"
as if their voices could lift a soul away from death.
Why didn't they shout my name before I left?
Each passing day I ask,
a question running through my mind but never left my lips
Yet no one would even hear me now nor even then...
Why couldn't I be loved, when I lived to have it felt?
Why did love look for me, when I was locked away for sure?
Loneliness was my disease and I never found my cure.
Why?
I watched the stars every night
waiting for all these glittering lights to hear my cry.
Now as I stand on the star's side
Hearing their sad mourning sighs
I now realize why...
They couldn't give what don't have,
even the shooting stars were as poor as hags.
And yet I ask the world again,
"WHO SAID I WAS DEAD?"
Who told you that I was gone and deep beneath the cold hard ground?
I am not dead.
Yes, I, Vincent--- Van Gogh it is to them
I say, I am not dead.
I live in every soul that's been forgotten
Every person in the street who Love has never met.
I live on teenagers on showers asking them selves "until when?!"
Every broken man drowning himself in liquor bottles---
I live in the lives of every soul that sought for love and never found them!
I am alive,
I am there as long as more people are asking "why?!"
I live while so many people stopped trying.
I am rooted in the hearts of those whose hearts are heavy---
heavy from the emptiness of living.
I stand beside every man ready to leap off a bridge and let the current carry their tormented fears.
I am alive,
I am full of wasted lives.
And as long as there's another---
who never found the love he should've been offered,
I say, I am alive!
Let there never be another who left
never having to be embraced by the sweetest feeling ever felt.
Never let anyone leave,
While they're bringing me.

Let there never be another cry for Vincent.

Always,
Vincent


(iac.)

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;