He grabs the brush and oh, he spins it;

Lost at life though now he wins it;

Ask him why? He will not listen;

Goes one ear and then just sits, it’s

all so tragic, also dark;

Damaged heart, you cannot fix it;

Strands are on the canvas, sticks it,

moves a little, then just picks it up and flicks it.

Just fixated and he’s jaded

and his faded soul has stated

that “the strokes I make are fate

then why’s it all so widely hated?

This paint is vital, my faint and idle body’s isolated.

At my lowest sighless silenced breath

This Stylo pen is running dry

Now my hope is running, bye;

My smiles are all a fucking lie!

But now my pain is calling since it’s

hearing this and oh, it’s wince and slyest grin

is instilled in my drying skin;

Brother I am dying, friend.”

And then he ends it;

“Yours’, Loving Vincent.“