I remember when I was young,
glancing at the broken ceiling. I could imagine
A frigid chill, sweeping beneath the curtains.
A cold hand around mine.
The day Robin Williams hung himself
I could feel the coarse fibers of a rope press
Against my throat, and blood curdle in my lungs.
I saw the way he made the cries silent;
An artist capturing composure,
I became inspired.
That broken ceiling became my muse,
And time starts to fade.
I can feel myself bitter; inhaling blood.
I always knew I would die young.