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Hollow Silence

This poem is about Kurt Cobain.

Life lessons are best learned from dead people.

Those who did not make it through.

The ones who never got a second try.

What is done is done.

There are no more tomorrows.

Something will always be in the way.

There is only this hollow silence in the room where he once stood.

In a greenhouse that was meant to shelter plants from the cold Seattle winters.

New doors will never be opened.

I can learn from his old mistakes.

Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

I dared to peel back the wallpaper of Kurt Cobain’s soul, and look for the deeper meaning behind his suicide.

I looked for signs in press interviews, his facial expressions and the words that he spoke.

I think he knew the end was near and he wanted it to be.

He was outside of his body watching himself from above.

Living out his last moments.

Telling friends he loved them and giving them belongings he knew they would cherish.

He didn’t want to go to rehab.

He wanted the train of Heroin and gunshot wounds to hit him head-on and put him out of his misery.

The fame only made him feel more alone.

It made the items he once scraped change together to buy mean less since he was able to buy the entire thrift store if he wanted.

He was out of his element in a sea filled with rock stars and the rich and famous.

The fame destroyed him.

The media attention was overwhelming.

He didn’t want to be popular.

He never wanted any of this.

He wanted to play for small crowds not sold out arenas.

He didn’t want to be followed by paparazzi and have his every move photographed.

He didn’t want to be a grunge icon.

He wanted to live in peace where few knew his name.

He could come and go as he pleased.

No one would draw attention to him.

The voice of a generation will never be silent.

His words and music will always be alive as if he was right here with us singing along.

There is a hollow silence where the spirit of Kurt Cobain resides next to Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix.

The dead at age 27 club.

Amy Winehouse does Heroin and smokes cigarettes with Kurt in the afterlife.

In a purgatory that is heavier than heaven.

The silence is hollow here. 

*This poem is featured in "Peeling Sanity" Due for release in October 2018. Be sure to check out my other poetry collections on Amazon.

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