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Oct 2014
The media blew you off as a tortured soul,
When your wife found you hanging, like a flag,
Tied to the kitchen pole.

People romanticized you as some sort of saint
And all meaning of yourself was lost.
People went to your gigs to see you dance and shake,
And to see you be carried off.
You were a child, once,
But then you made the wrong decisions, grew up
And now the cynics call you a dunce.
You had a daughter, but you never held her,
Was it because you didn't feel worthy to?
I wonder now, if she wants you to hold her, even though she's much elder.

They say you were brilliant,
The ones who viewed you through a microscope.
Of course there were the cruel ones,
Who said that your heart was cold,
But maybe, maybe, you could have grown old.

You'd wake up with a kiss from your wife,
Who'd lumber her aged body out of bed,
Or maybe, you'd have a different life.
One, far far away on your own,
But you'd have developed,
You would have grown.

Now, only indie teenagers visit your grave,
Put Joy Division and New Order records by your tombstone.
Write you messages, which rant and rave,
With conditional love for you.

You weren't some heroic legend,
With a poisoned inner core.
You had your struggles,
That had haunted you long before.

So maybe one day I will be an indie teenager, and I will visit your grave.
But I will not give your death,
Such romanticizing the others gave.
Under all the messages that read "LEGEND", for your suicide,
I will write: "MAN".
Because that is what you are.
Written by
Beckawecka  Ireland
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