Feeling happy only excites the insides when he consumes yellow paint, but who's to say yellow is such a happy color?
Or does he eat the toxins to inflict visible pain where it does not show?
The man sees stars as large blobs of happy-sad yellows and dots and swirls;
A man who sees nothing for what it is.
He only hears the wretched cries of the crows, and he's already decomposing, so why not make the process quicker?
He severs his ear so he only hears half the cries now, half of him at ease.
A man with a future of fame and wealth that he would not have lived to anyway, so what was the point?
There's a man with holes in his head, a wound in his heart,
And a happy-sad bullet in his gut; his shirt stained the color of his beard.