Van Gogh and I
Van Gogh was a poet
Who painted picture words
A tortured soul with shattered heart
At least that's what I've heard.
I sit for hours and contemplate
The purpose of his plight
Then throw up my hands and lose myself
In his starry "Starry Night."
He had a knack for choosing
Pale ordinary scenes
And touching them with magic
And changing what they mean.
He turned ugliness into beauty
And beauty into scorn
He threw away the scented rose
And gave pity to the thorn.
He never knew the taste of love
And yet it brought him low
Love played the game of hide and seek
But it's face it would not show.
Love made him paint the portraits
Love made him wield the brush
He gave his life and soul for love
And love left his heart crushed.
His tired old men look sadly out
Of their prisons (picture frames)
They cry out for their privacy
For their hundred years of shame.
In every field and peasant
I see Van Gogh's expression
His hope and hopelessness comes through
For he never learned his lesson.
Through Van Gogh's eyes I see the world
(Or the world as it should be)
Van Gogh and I are quite alike:
We can't face reality.
Sometimes I almost fancy
When before his work I stand
That he is in there looking out
Reaching forth his hand.
Drawing me into his world
Far from this earth of blight
To sit with him and gaze into
That eternal starry night.
And if I could, I'd take his hand
And make him want to live
The world has taken all from him
Now it's our turn to give.
Vin-cent, if you can hear me
I hope my words ring true
I long to brush away your pain
And paint a smile on you.
