Sylvia Plath, a poet, has consumed toxic gas
While she had her head in the oven.
Another poet, too, consumed gas in her vehicle
And her name was Anne Sexton.
Virginia Woolf breathed and inhaled underwater
With her coat filled with heavy stones.
Edgar Allan Poe remained a mystery, even today
But he was indeed filled with despair and alcohol.
Ernest Hemingway took a bullet to himself
Due to a severe amount of persistent pain.
Same goes to Nirvana’s suffering lead singer,
And his name was Kurt Cobain.
Vincent van Gogh, who cut off his ear with manic,
Has died with a reason very unknown,
He was shot, indeed; some say he was murdered,
Some say his life was taken by his own.
And lastly, there was David Foster Wallace,
A writer who was only 46 in 2008;
Very tragic in this era and at a young age,
He hanged himself until he had asphyxiate.
They all have one thing in common,
That is they have this disease; an illness and malady
That can happen to anyone, and if not treated
It can be very deadly.
I, for one, am one of them; I am truly not alone
Like Wallace and Hemingway; Poe and Plath;
I may not know what mines will be, all I know
Is that my disease will have an aftermath,
An aftermath that can cause horror and agony…
Even for those who truly love and adore me.