work in progress: death of a poet

i’ve read
it’s a poet’s dream to die for love
my pen without parchment
emotion itself is not enough

but, to love myself
first and foremost
above all else
no maybes or almosts

i’ve seen
my heart become a revolving door
people came and went
temporarily, and nothing more

i’ve heard
suicide is a coward’s way out
those voices, now silent
where are they, where are they, where are they now?