by Vincent van Gogh

The realest poems I do write,

They hide in chests unopened,

Locked away never to be read,

By the subjects about whom I’ve spoken.


The lovers who have done me wrong,

And the friends who haven’t a clue,

Of the pain and suffering I incur.

Why don’t they just leave me alone?

On Yearning

Alain Dumas

Oh how lovely it feels,

This emotion that comes like the wind,

Easy against my skin,

Like the breath of God.

T’is the sound of music rushing in,

Breathing life into my soul,

Like when your hand’s against my chin,

I must’ve been lifted from the ground, by this angel named ___.

Can’t you see my grin?

That smile upon my face,

What a win, what a win,

What a God, what a God,

And oh, to everything He is in:

When we dance, when we kiss,

When we yearn, when we miss,

Oh I’ve fallen upon a dazzling miracle,

Upon a calling that pulls me in,

T’is but physical, t’is no sin,

Dear Lord, this is prayer,

And I pray  You hear my hymn.