Many (An Original Poem)

Many women cry.
Many friends die.
Their life? A lie.

My head was burning and sick.
My life was waiting for a death kick.
I was ill and had no wife for my dick.

Fear to be mad.
Which kind of 'dead'?
But not bloody and not red.

I would kill myself softly, not hard.
Heroin for my brain and my heard.
But I create poems, music and art.

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