Van Gogh

I can’t seem to get any tonight. I lay down and start to write poetry in my head. Over and over. It’s pretty damn pointless.

“The most beautiful paintings are those one dreams of while smoking a pipe in one’s bed but which one doesn’t make.”

I keep thinking of Van Gogh. “Lust for Life” has really burned in my putrid little mind. His life of horror and the consuming passion for his art. All of it just makes my own life and everyone (well, almost everyone) I’ve ever known, just seem so utterly insignificant and nearly pointless.

You melted my frozen heart
into an ocean of tears
with no map or compass
only the shrouded stars
of my misty dreams
on the edge of this
impassable and unknown sea…