Van Gogh

a life diminished of all its former happiness,
has been reduced into endless waves
of bitter despair,
of a life i have turned into
failed art, and i am the sum of
a thousand paintings locked in a dimly-lit room
so no one can lay their eyes upon them,
so no one can see through the transparency
of the person i used to be

and all around me i hear voices
calling out in ocean waves,
beautiful faces in cobblestone streets
dying for my brushstrokes to bring them to life,
to exist hung upon a wall
and gazed at with awe and wonder
as if the artist’s soul had somehow
been poured upon the canvas,
as if it breathes with life

but i feel nothing but turmoil
crawling within me, the absence
inside my skin eats me alive
and strangles me until i am no longer able
to feel worth,
until i see nothing but
starry night skies and flowers decaying
almost as fast as i am

and i have become the withered flower,
the stars in the night sky,
perfectly existing in the discard pile,
the ruined art,

because no one has found beauty
in things that still beat with life

 

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