As someone who calls themself an artist... inspiration is hard to come by sometimes. Which leaves me comtemplating... should I... can I... even call myself an artist... Am I worthy of such a title? Is what I do, what I create... what I live for... art?
Then everything with me revolves around this... Everytime I struggle, it comsumes me. And I know everything will be ok.
Starry, starry night. Paint your palette blue and gray. Look out on a summer day. With eyes that know the darkness in my soul. Shadows on the hill. Sketch the trees and daffodils. Catch the breeze and winter chills. In colors on the snowy linen land.
Now I understand what you tried to say to me. And how you suffered for your sanity. How you tried to set them free. They would not listen. They did not know how. Perhaps they'll listen now.
Starry, starry night. Portraits hung in empty halls. Frame less heads on nameless walls. With eyes that watch the world. And can't forget like strangers, that you've met. Ragged men in ragged clothes. The silver thorn, a bloody rose. Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
Now I think I know. What you tried to say to me. How you suffered for your sanity. And you tried to set them free. They would not listen. They're not listening still. Perhaps they never will. For they could not love you. But still, your love was true. And when no hope was left inside. On that starry, starry night. You took your life as lovers often do. But I could've told you, Vincent. This world was never meant for one, as beautiful as you.
