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Death of the American Poet

Poetry By: elegantbleeding
Historical fiction



Does this really need an explanation?


Submitted:Apr 15, 2007    Reads: 203    Comments: 4    Likes: 0   


Walking through windows of rain,
You've never seen things more clearly.
All the colors are running together,
But none of them blend.
People just don't look at you the same anymore,
But they all know your name.
Some laugh, some joke,|
Some shake their heads and say,
"What happened to you?"
Of course, you know you're not the same.
Life has drained you;
You've lost pieces of yourself
That you'll never get back.
All those little pills your friends washed down the sink
Always find their way back to you.
You need these, you try to tell them...
You stress it, trying to explain
That it's the only way you can stand yourself.
The same old songs, night after night...
They've lost their magic.
You've lost your magic.
Your eyes have no soul to tell anymore,
Your conscience got lost somewhere on tour.
The music just doesn't feel the same.
You cry,
You try to tell the world,
You try to break free,
But all you found was that high
Between miserable and existence.
It made you into a poet,
But no one understood it then-
Your loneliness and grief...
You died doing what they thought you loved,
But in your last moments, your final thought was
"I am still alone... All alone...
At least the people finally stopped looking strange."





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