Van Gogh’s painting that I stole from the museum
Is stuck in my throat
As it’s colors are flooding my eyes
Melting my face .
Windows painted in yellow
The lamps are spreading it’s light inside the house
Yet there are no shadows of children
Dancing to the music of their father,
Is visible through that yellow eyes of the house.
Are those house sad
I asked my lover
He grabbed hold of my hand and
Bit all of my fingers
One by one
Some of them bled while the others not
Then he asked me
Write poetry with those and frame them as it is
In their written form
And someone might once ask her lover
Seeing those words, those blood stains
Was she sad when she wrote this?
And her lover might just kiss her to tell her
It doesn’t matter anymore.
It doesn’t matter anymore!
I’ve heard someone say that
Artists are mad men who isolate themselves
Scarifies things no one cares about
And call themselves the forgotten ones.
Van Gogh cut his ears off for his art
My mother grabbed hold of my hands
Much firmer than how my lover held
And asked what are you going to do
I knew she was trying to say, don’t cut your wrist.
Depression may not be a painting
But it is black water to marble something on.
I’ve forgotten the difference between sunrises and sunsets now and
I just float at the end of the sea
My skin exposed and the crimson sun
Coloring each of my skin cells, in red, blue, yellow, Orange and purple too sometimes.
While I mumur to the sea in a dead tone
©The Rendezvous Club 2019
All Rights Reserved!