Van Gogh


Where is the pain?

It’s here inside -

Buried within my heart;

Raw and worn

In crippled form,

No pulse it needs

To start.

I need this suppressed pain,

For what is life

Stuck in between.

Numb and locked

Inside yourself -

They stole and hid

The key.

Where the unnatural hides,

Where it twists into vines,

Where melancholy is thrust.

Where the black and the white

Fade to unhappy gray -

Blurred hope

And tiresome flush.

No pain means 

No more art,

No inspiration to express.

Stuck inside a muted dream,

No sins are put to rest.

Writing soothes the soul

And helps to heal

Bruises and scars,

But if I cannot write,

There’s no salvation,


Nor stars.

The vortex that


It holds no pain -

No hurt,

No mad.

Just emptiness

And hollow eyes,

Tinged with shallow sad.

Forcing words out of my mouth

Is hurtful;

Bad, you see.

When I lose all my sanity -

Poetry finds it for me.


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