Another poem about the face behind the mask,

To grip you, shock you out of the, erm, shell

You've hidden yourself behind? Haven't we

Had enough of each suicide, retold in a

Hundred dictionaried words and unmistakably

Anguished phrases, cried out, can you believe it,

In bold? She's hurting we know, he's stolen her soul,

And gone away. We'll cry with her, our tears mixing

With all the rain, going down the drain, if that's

What you want. You the writer, who's seen it all,

Who needs her, who wants her because she's

The perfect muse. A subject with reviews. The pain,

It sells, especially when you find it rhymes.

And I'll endorse it, because I'm the ignorant drifter,

Gathering culture and again, something

To talk about. The faded memories you bring to life,

The hair falling over her pale, hollow face and

The tragic downfall you draw us all, as

Oh-so-eager witnesses to, it's absolutely

Brilliant. And I, in quotes and joyful stars and smiles, applaud.