Missunderstood

I am misunderstood. I am an artist. I work with my heart through my hands; a concept not accepted in this unforgiving society. This cruel world was not meant for a person like me. I am different; my work is not recognized. They call my sanity insanity. With a flick of the hand I can cause pain, or soothe it. Why won’t my art sell? Only my precious Red Vineyard at Arles has flown from my flock. Incandescent hues of Sunflowers and Irises lay scattered in a dark workshop. I stare up at the night sky from my cell. My window is narrow, but my mind sees it all. A vast, canvas covered by swirling winds and bright yellow lights. All these stars! They are shining brighter tonight. As if they understand my raw loneliness. I must capture it before it runs away. As I caress the paper with streaks of blue and grey, the voices go away. They are always here, in my mind. I beg for them to leave, but on the morrow they will return Warm liquid gold runs in between my fingers. Oh on this Starry Starry Night I do not feel misunderstood, And yet, morning will come, stars fading while solitude rises with the morning sun. Still a poor man; still haunted by invisible voices; still a burden to my brother. I raise my paint stained hand to my left ear and remember. La tristesse, this sadness, will last forever.