Because we all write pretentious poetry about our favorite artists at some point:

van Gogh

They say he went mad at the end.
Absinthe,
Or the sting in his paints.
I think it was the world.
The unsurvivable beauty of it,
Air three inches thick,
Stars bursting into bloom,
The incandescence of hay.
Who can survive this blaze,
Chewing and chewing the meat of the sun?