Artists, as they call themselves,
Those madmen,
Dancing, singing, burning, cursing
personification of bleeding heart and raging pain
Idols of masses,
And Gods for many of us
Symbol of glamour, fame, money and rage
Being celebrated throughout history,
All around the world,
Often sung one unheard song...
Some of them never get old
They just disappear,
They just melt away in the silence
Without making any noise!
You may never know,
How alone they were
How hollow their smiles were
How hurt they were inside
You may never know
Until it’s too late!
They die alone in the dark room
With fistful of pills and a suicide note
or a rope hanging from ceiling and a suicide note
Waiting for someone to take the corpse down
But nobody comes,
Until corpse starts to stink
But nobody cares,
Until it’s too late!
They die alone
Like a burnt crow on high tension wire
Later thousands of crows will gather to the funeral,
Gorging all over the town.
Praises! Tributes! RIP! And so on,
But in the end nothing matters,
When buried six feet under the ground!
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