“Roses are red, violets are blue,
“Come to my bed, for my love is true,”
Never was said to me.
So I will think of something new.
And why not just be me?
If there’s nothing else to do,
Try autobiography.
Omit the factitious “you.”
Just present, like Van Gogh, my life’s truth—
The poor bed, the rude chair, the worn
shoe….
But present them to whom? To some “you”?
And if that makes “you” real?
In your reality, what would I be?
Would there really be a true me?
Can there truly be a real “you”?
Could any of this really be true?
quora .com/How-much-is-a-Vincent-Van-Gogh-painting-worth-in-2015-Are-some-worth-more-than-others
https://vangoghworldwide.org/artwork/F255
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