Today I read about a poet who cried every night before she went to sleep

Except each tear was carefully placed, and her eyes were empty

She didn't know how to live her life and found herself a Persian Cat

She was no Angel in the House, but rather a fighter against hell

Today I read about a poet, whose side profile looked majestic and royal

Anyone would assume that she was happy being beautiful

But later in 1942 she drowned herself, and water filled her lungs

And perhaps this was tragedy or maybe it was a release

From the clutches of womanhood, because she was no angel

Today I read a poem about a poet who found herself deceased

For she had, in fact, become a ghost in each woman's heart

A citation on who they should strive to be, for she was a martyr

And maybe one I will become her in every respect, except

I have already tried to kill myself and choked on my vomit

I did not die and become a ghost, instead, I lived and rose

Life to was about persecution but now I see that it is about execution

I lit a flame in my gear I floated toward heaven and landed on earth

Where I will live till I am ready to die just as that poet.