Van Gogh finished the last brushstroke
His hands, flecked with paint, ached
The action of creation always hurts
Her smile gave nothing away
It held unwritten secrets and mysteries
Yet to be discovered by frayed minds
The Mona Lisa was completed
For ages, people would wonder why
She smiled so and hours would pass
In darkened, dusty rooms by scholars
Dreamers and philosophers attempting
To find the truth or at least make a better lie
Van Gogh smiled too because he knew
Her smile was the last piece he painted
An ecstatic grin would not have worked
Life is not joy, it is madness, electric and fiery
A serious frown would not have worked
Life is not a school, a judge, a lord looking down
Life is mystery and wonder
It is madness and chaos
It is an eternal quest forward
It is darkness, crawling up from below
Van Gogh saw this when he woke in the morning
And battled the emptiness of another endless day
He saw this when he painted endless garbage
And burned it, convinced that fire could cleanse him
No Starry Night, no sunflowers, they all rotted away
The canvas infested with maggots and failures unknown
Ecstasy does not make a legacy
It is chaos and impermanent creation
Solemnity does not make a legacy
It is order and permanent dullness
There has to be a balance
Life is the Mona Lisa’s Smile
Poetry Overdose 