You were a broken soul on the inside but a stunning fox in the photos
A woman with an anguished mind; just a sweetheart some saw loco
On that Mercy Street you grew unmercifully as a legend in the making
A young girl brought up by abusive parents, there ain't no mistaking
I could hear the pain in your voice with each story you would tell
Your trauma molded you into an eloquent poetess that compelled
Dr. Orne asked you what you're good at, you told him 'fille de joie'
But he 'filliped' you to inspire others with mental illness for the idea of STRONG
You turned to writing as a catharsis after several suicide attempts
And though the last was successful it gave pertinence to the 'Sylvia Plath effect'
You ran a humble career by writing therapeutically to no one's favor
Igniting an entire path of 'Confessional Poetry,' you were a trailblazer
You made a lot of noise in the industry publishing 9 volumes of work
It took a delving into for me to realize how much of an icon you were
Got there by shattering glass ceilings and right through the plexus
From Rogers Hall in Massachusetts to the Harry Ransom Center in Texas
From not being sure if you wanted to be a poet, to teaming with pundits
And later being named into the Royal Society of Literature in London
A Pulitzer Prize winner for "Live or Die" made you notoriously big
So on the same week as National Poetry Day for you I'll smoke a cig
Your depression and the suicidal ideation in your writing was telling
And on that starry night the world lost you to that dragon with no belly
When you asphyxiated yourself in your garage with carbon monoxide
And too many warnings like bread crumbs had the hands of clocks tied
Ink from your pen to the paper all feelings splashed like spilt tea
"Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me."
In a conscious style, leaving behind a message for any in the dark;
Quoted "Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard."
Deafening spirit to today's museum a garden your nib bloomed in
As you said, "Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance."
Rest In Peace
