So here's a little biographical poem of Van Gogh. It's kind of raw, and my first attempt at free verse, but let me know what you think. Also, let me know if I got the rating right. I wasn't sure if was graphic enough to be rated R, but I at that anyway.
A Starry Night
There was a gnawing inside of him.
It started at his heavy heart
at the chasm,
the void,
where he had once allowed her in.
The place he had, with trust, allowed her to fill
with illusory emotion.
The place he had always reached for when he needed inspiration and art and beauty.
The gnawing spread like a cancer
slowing his burdened heart,
fogging his brilliant mind,
dulling the eye which had seen so much beauty,
un-willing a hand with which he could create art.
His soul hungered to feel something, anything,
but pleasure couldn't put a dent
on the emptiness.
He needed sensation.
He needed pain.
He needed to will the trembling hand to clutch the silver dagger
He needed the cold kiss of the metal on his ear lobe
to replace the memory of her warm kisses on his lips.
The coldness was soon replaced by the warm blood, coursing out,
down
the silver of the blade
and the steel of the hilt
and onto his trembling hands.
A sense of calm propagated through
his troubled mind
overriding the panic of the warm sticky ear he held in his hand.
The calm would not last.
While he he still had his sanity,
he put the ear
in a box
and sent it away.
Far away.
The throbbing pain at the side of his head broke the calm and thoughts of her penetrated the reprieve of pain.
On his hands he saw the color
the dark violet red
and he longed for more.
He longed for vividness
With a hand that no longer trembled, he clutched a brush
and with hit he filled the chasm with color and beauty.
Dark color and a terrible beauty.
He poured the gnawing onto the canvas,
again and again,
into the swirling eddies
of a starry night.
