There was once a poet who shot himself in the head,
Because all the poetry he wrote, and all the words he had said,
Meant nothing to anyone, so he figured he'd be better off dead.
He'd been a poet for years, and years.
Perfecting his craft, working until he drove himself mad.
Until each poem detailed every pinch of his pain,
As well as every drop of his tears,
So they wouldn't be wiped away in vain.
But with all this hard work he put in,
Still, nobody knew his name.
And each book he published,
Never drew any fame.
He was overcome with depression, and twisted overthinking thoughts,
And slowly, he was becoming insane.
He wouldn't eat.
He wouldn't sleep.
Because all he cared about was his poetry.
He walked on the line of defeat,
But still continued on hoping,
That one day this might all pay off,
And he'd finally be able to take a day off and be happy.
But with each poem finished,
And each book submitted,
No success ever came.
By the time his sixth book was published,
He was already past defeat.
Ten years of writing, and he never saw his dreams complete.
He continued writing,
But only because it's what he knew best.
If you saw him around this time,
It would've been evident that he's well past given up.
He was dirt poor, sick, and living in the local disease infested slums.
All his hope was lost, and it was never to be found.
Even the local bystanders who passed by him daily,
Stopped coming around.
He had no one.
No family, no friends.
He was truly all alone.
Soon after, he saw his writing begin to decline,
Which made him question if he should even be carrying on in this life anymore.
Then one day, while he was searching for food,
He found a gun.
He was surprised to find it hidden inside a trash bags,
Because in all his years living here,
He'd never seen one.
He pulled back the slide, saw there was still a bullet chambered inside.
It kinda scared him, because he knew he was walking a line,
And one wrong step could lead to his inevitable death,
So he put it down and held his breath,
Then exhaled with a sad look in his eyes.
He put it down because he knew what he was about to do.
It kinda scared him,
But what does he have to lose?
His life in his eyes was well past finished,
And his health was finding its way to dimmish.
He let out a deep sigh, and realized his life was over,
So he put the gun to his head, a second later he fell over.
The shot rang a couple blocks away.
The police were notified, and the first responders came.
They found the gun, and the poet with no name.
And what followed, ensured his death wasn't in vain.
In his death investigation, a detective noticed something odd,
The gun the poet used, has its serial number scratched off.
And soon later was found to be the gun used to kill five cops.
It was the murder weapon they'd been struggling to find,
And now with it present, they can Identify the killer this time.
Time passed,
And finally the detective had gathered enough evidence to link a suspect to the crime,
And with swift action, they moved in to arrest the man,
The death penalty they found would be just fine.
And the story of the poet who committed suicide,
Had then begun to be told.
So many people looked at him as hero in their community,
And their undying support for him began to unfold.
Soon after his poetry was found, and later became a hit.
His name became renowned,
And all of his books had number one best seller stickers on it.
His burial held more people than a town,
And there he was labeled the best modern-day poet,
Who they wish would've stuck around.
But without his death he wouldn't be who he is today,
And they commemorate him each year because of this,
By giving him his own special day.
And on that day he is forever remembered.
As a poet,
And as the hero of their town.
