They take your innards and make you into a tragedy
Hang you on the wall, stuffed, for all to see.
Just so they can reminisce
Speak of how much you touched them
And how there hasn’t been anyone since.
A public condition — they like their heroes dead.
To Jean-Michel Basquiat and every other who delivered their gift and left
You genius child, you born martyr
If the world had known would they have loved you any harder.
You lost soul.
Lost your soul. Still
You gave your whole
Knew you had something inside to give the whole
Must’ve got your beat from the street
And bought your spirit antique.
Hadn’t seen anything like you
You collaboration of culture and breath
Beauty and death
Silence and depth
Rebel against uprights
You hung left
Not worried about going hungry
When you’re so full
So they starved you.
Til you were nothing but brushes and jars
And your smock hung loose
You still refused.
Cope is a 4 letter word
Whatever is used
Normally depends on what part of you is bruised.
I pray that in your second coming you die a death you choose.