Why do young famous singers commit suicide sometimes?

Quirky From Afar (New Draft 11/02/2016)

From the surf of many dawns, listen
my dear favorite flighty bird:
I’m sadly waving like an ocean

on your feathers; I
wonder why there’s no endless splash.

That water I knew seems shallow
but the music always seems cool.

Oh sorrow-drowning girl I
wonder why you die, why you
shed your feathers in the waves.

So many young song birds crash
and fame’s not much of a crumb.

Guess my fantasy, my love
is a bye-bye, a
pretty song bird up a stage tree
who’s never seen an ocean wave hi.

Oh, my love, my sad lady
sitting in the catbird seat
wonder why you’ve
never seen the sunrise smile.

To me, I’ve
heard a mournful lady, and
wonder why you’d die

’cause flattering and fluttering
fan cats purr and fan chicks peep

and no I’m not
exactly a fan, no not exactly, even though
you make showy new arrangements,
make a scene without a melody, upscale
variations and inversions on the sorrow sparrow.

I wonder why
you’ve never seen an ocean wave hi,
and oh God

I mourn all fallen
song birds at dawn
with oatmeal, but sometimes

lunch is best
at breakfast time
with appetizers at sunrise
by the ocean.

Birdies in the dawn
have worldly songs I know,
choreographed for the video.

The trouble with the quirky world
is few singers will have an
elegant soup for breakfast,
will not take my silly advice for
the morning lunch of desire

pizza with me, and
anchovies for seagulls
opus no. 4, symphony 2,

won’t minister to the minestrone
and are left with a cereal for the showy birds.

I make soup for breakfast sometimes
just to watch the mist fog up the
window glass of dawn
where nothing can be a scene.

I have a showy tablespoon
with a fancy engraved handle
for my lonely soups, for sometimes
it’s better to sip carefully than
be scorched with hot sorrow

better to look out the window at
feathers and upper blue cool dawn,
better not listen to orange songs
and be juiced.

Screeching birds in the dawn
have angry tears in the rain, secretly
curling up with a soupy turmoil
a noodle that no one is willing
to unravel, and many unwilling
to spoon out comfort to them.

These are the famous agonies
I think I know, though
being nobody of renown,
such unseen sorrow has
no publicity value, has no way
to monetize a cry, can not
get this tune on the charts, but
you have a beautiful way
to monetize sorrow.

Seen you young beautiful girl
who might have been near
where I could have praised
your feathers of flight
your perfume of happiness,
could have spooned out
a dollop and a dabble in magic
like I once thought I had.

I’ve seen your dance
in the bubble and cage
of the obscene show-biz scene
seen many be too serious about trivia.

Oh magnificent party girl, don’t die young again,
young girl with the band and groupies.

If you’d’ leave your toady agent and her dreams
and let me be a non-toxic chatty drug, ha
I’d sing nonsense with you
because I am profoundly silly, and
I wonder why you’d die even with the
praise of your fans, and no I’m not
exactly a fan, no not exactly, no it’s

just that I’ve heard you scream famously
and I’ve screamed alone, because
I can’t seem to compose the song of my heart
as well as you who is talented, lonely, and sad.

Maybe I could’ve been your odd high
the quirky no one who’s not hip
and hears your secret silent cries
that fans and agents never hear
when they feed you any drug of the day
you think you want, and if in a haze
you keep on chirping
I’ll pray for you, because
you are so beautiful and
of course, sexy, but
that’s not the point
though they say it is.

Oh hey, I know about loneliness
and when one dies young, and
I will wonder why talent doesn’t matter
and why I never met you.

Can’t say if I would have mattered at all
can’t say if I would have been more than a quirk
or a mere jerk, but you will die young probably, and
maybe I would have given you a precious hour…

Urgently
an hour is all I need
to love being with a song
a rhapsody in grace
so blue toned, but I’ve

seen you on
a stage tree perch
in the catbird seat

and though you
let the fawning cats meow
you can not requite the clawing.

Still I wonder why oh
beautiful girls die young
though they can sing
sorrowful chirps and dirges on key

And I wonder if
I could have sailed to you
an admirer in a crow’s nest
who loved you more than a fan

— Douglas Gilbert

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