Yellow Paint

Vincent Van Gogh, a man of incredible art,

Yet, a soul tormented, forever torn apart,

Swallowing yellow paint to heal the hole in his heart

With each brushstroke, he bared his cards,

From his palette flowed forth a yellow stain, a work of art.

But decades have passed since he's been gone,

And still, the world grinds on, searching for its own song,

People no longer swallow paint to escape their wrong,

Their escapes of choice are now digital or analog.

We drown in a vast and restless sea of pills, alcohol, and drugs,

We want nothing more than to numb our thoughts, emotions, and life's tugs,

We try to ignore the demons that lurk and strangle our minds,

Whispering dark thoughts, making us hurt, blinding us from the good kind.

But no amount of paint or toxic poison can heal the wounds that lay just below our skin,

The echoes of past mistakes, always echoing, a constant din that never sleeps within,

The wounds never quite heal, though we may try,

The pain never goes away, it's always there, lurking at night.

For a long time, we search for our own yellow,

Something that could dull the pain, and make our lives mellow,

We laugh and drown ourselves in a bottomless sea of pills and alcohol,

Anything to drown out the emptiness and shore up our life's call.

But then, we fall in love, and we realize too late,

That the yellow paint we thought we wanted, wasn't our fate,

For it lay deep within our souls, a glimmer of light, a spark of hope,

That could make everything alright, and help us cope.

Love becomes our drug, our faithful poison of choice,

Taking small doses of our yellow-painted joy, to find our inner voice,

Spreading it to create a canvas of tears, pain, and love,

Making us ingest our own yellow paint in vain, with impossible aims, a frustrating glove.

We thought love was the brush that could heal all wounds,

But in reality, it was the brush that left us marred and misconstrued,

Its strokes, cruel, and misguided, inflicted wounds that went deep,

The bittersweet poison of love, a pain that refused to let anyone sleep.

We were once like a field of Vincent's sunflowers, bright, and free,

Growing upwards towards the warm rays of the sun, a jubilant sight to see,

But our petals were plucked, and we were left, lonely and empty,

A masterpiece, now tainted, a tarnished and hopeless tapestry.

Love can be a storm, a whirlwind of chaos, both devastating, and alluring

Like a hurricane, leaving us dazed, confused, and enduring,

Like a tornado, it can pick us up, and spin us around,

Leaving us stranded, wounded, and forever bound.

The yellow paint, once pure and bright, now smeared with shades of grey,

A tapestry of tumultuous emotions in disarray,

And though we seek to escape, to find solace outside of our embrace,

The yellow paint remains forever tarnished, forever etched with the face of life's unforgettable chase.

So here we stand, seeking answers, seeking a way to be free,

A journey of healing, to reclaim what was once lost in agony,

Our yellow paint, buried deep, under layers of hurt and remorse,

A symbol of a love gone wrong, seeking redemption, to stay the course.