The first one in creative spree
Was swallowed by a gloom.
Erotic, wild fantasies
In an empty lonely room.
Scarlet strips on frail wrists
Were bleeding more and more
Before she fell on the dirty floor
Dead, forlorn, alone.
Graceful lines on dismal pictures
Screamed about wet, secret wishes.
Naked girls and razor blades,
Scenes of her dramatic fate.
Beauty of submissive postures,
Painting was a pleasant torture,
Scattered, elegant costumes,
Sweet and bare mannequins.
Brushes turned to dust
Because of hungry, burning lust
And absence of shy blush.
Fading, silky shine
Of silent, brown eyes
Was a sorrowful and ghastly sign
Of her lamentable demise.
No! That day she died.
But, the legacy of thousands pictures will live in people's hearts.
Devoured by eternity as the Mistress of dark art.
The second one was fooled
By entrancing sounds of vile strings
Which played on her soul's wounds.
Woven in deep corners of her perverted mind
Magnificent, dark music aroused the wish to fly.
Lured her at the dirty roof.
Set the sad, romantic mood.
Final, desperate steps
Led her towards the tragic end.
Strings played notes of farewell
and then... and then she fell.
Moist air streams
Were pinching the pale, tired face
As if it was a dream.
The fragile body met its grievous fate,
But the music she wrote will never die
and thus she stayed alive.
The third one was obsessed by lofty poetry,
But something was amiss.
A felling of the slowly growing agony
Troubled the young Miss.
Secret, guilty pleasure
To hang on a long rope.
Will her life be as fleeting
Same fleeting as a hope?
Mysterious magic of her words,
To create depressive, charming worlds,
Poured in ears like a deadly spell,
It turned her life into a hell.
Sentences entwined in serpentines
Besotted her like sour wine.
Paper seemed to be decayed,
It was the death embrace.
In the darkest hour
She couldn't bear grievous thoughts
It killed the gentle flower.
Without any tears and agonizing fears
She wrote the fateful, poignant lines
And committed suicide.
She was so awful tired
From lousy books, from phony looks
And histrionical desires,
But it was in vain,
Because her dear pain
Became a home for those who felt
The same, who wanted to cut a thread
Of their dreary lives,
Who wanted to stop crying every lonely night,
For those who wanted to learn a sincere smile
In spite of the blatant, impudent, vulgar lies.
But everything has end,
Whether human's life or even death.
So maybe it's better to pretend and not to see the truth,
For there never were stories of more woe,
Than stories of the people who were doomed.