Although I am two cracked pieces, I will seal them together at the seams with words. 

And you wonder
    is this really all it tastes like? 
To destroy yourself so beautifully. 

You collapse again, 
    a dying star
knees buckling under this world you've been so prettily condemned under. 

Atlas-- 
    O, poor, sweet prisoner,
Your galaxy can support you no longer. 

    The legend says that Van Gogh 
believed in the happiness of the Yellow he painted his sunflowers in. 
    The starving artist, hungry for food and painless existence 
devoured his media right from the tube;
    believing that if he could stain-glass chapel his inner walls, 
it would bleed through his tissue and eventually, to his brain. 

    The truth, as we know it, is far less optimistic. 
Van Gogh was banned from his art studio in his frequent fits of depression--
    his psychologist believed that he wanted to poison himself 
by ingesting his paints, a broad spectrum of emotion, 
    and drinking turpentine.
When Van Gogh could no longer crave happiness, he craved renal failure. 

    Van Gogh has my disease, is a model of my disorder. He wrote more than 800 letters in his lifetime,
    he was NON-STOP