We laugh at the artist,
Crazy enough to eat yellow paint,
In some desperate attempt at happiness,
Pretending there aren’t time in the middle of the night,
When we would be willing to do anything,
Just for some sense of joy,
Some semblance of normalcy,
A way to prove to ourselves that there is so much left to live for.
He ate that paint,
the same hue as his sunflowers,
To put that light inside himself,
But the colour of sunlight,
Wheat fields glowing golden in autumn,
Can’t chase out darkness,
Anymore than love can chase out hate.
Do you ever have mornings when you wake up and everything that was wrong in the night didn’t go away, and you take a look at the dreary outside and you understand completely why Vincent Van Gogh would eat yellow paint, because you’re desperate enough for some sort of happiness that if it wasn’t so goddamn expensive you would eat it too.