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

Quirky From Afar

Quirky From Afar

Sadly waving on
wonder why there’s no endless splash

The water seems shallow
the music seems cool

Oh sorrow drowning girl
wonder why she’d die
shed her feathers in the waves

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

Guess she’s a bye-bye
pretty song bird up a stage tree
who’s never seen an ocean wave hi

Oh that sad lady
sitting in the catbird seat
wonder why she’s
never seen the sunrise smile

To me, I’ve
heard a mournful lady,
wonder why she’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
she makes showy new arrangements,
makes a scene without a melody, upscale
variations and inversions on the sorrow sparrow

wonder why
she’s never seen an ocean wave hi

I mourn the 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
she has a beautiful way
to monetize sorrow

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

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

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

Maybe I could’ve been her odd high
the quirky no one who’s not hip
and hears her secret silent cries
that fans and agents never hear
when they feed her any drug of the day
she thinks she wants, and if in a haze
she keeps on chirping
I’ll pray for her, because
she is 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 she dies young
I will wonder why talent doesn’t matter
and why I never met her

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 she will die young probably, and
maybe I would have given her an 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 her on
a stage tree perch
in the catbird seat

and though she
lets the fawning cats meow
she can not requite the clawing

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

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

— Douglas Gilbert

Quirky From Afar (Draft 8x 3rd Person)

Quirky from Afar (Draft 8x, 3rd person)

Sadly waving on
wonder why there’s no endless splash

The water seems shallow
the music seems cool

Oh sorrow drowning girl
wonder why she’d die
shed her feathers in the waves

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

Guess she’s a bye-bye
pretty song bird up a stage tree
who’s never seen an ocean wave hi

Oh that sad lady
sitting in the catbird seat
wonder why she’s
never seen the sunrise smile

To me, I’ve
heard a mournful lady,
wonder why she’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
she makes showy new arrangements,
makes a scene without a melody, upscale
variations and inversions on the sorrow sparrow

wonder why
she’s never seen an ocean wave hi

I mourn the 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
she has a beautiful way
to monetize sorrow

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

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

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

Maybe I could’ve been her odd high
the quirky no one who’s not hip
and hears her secret silent cries
that fans and agents never hear
when they feed her any drug of the day
she thinks she wants, and if in a haze
she keeps on chirping
I’ll pray for her, because
she is 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 she dies young
I will wonder why talent doesn’t matter
and why I never met her

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 she will die young probably, and
maybe I would have given her an hour

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

don’t know why
beautiful girls die young
even when they can sing
sorrowful chirps and dirges on key

— Douglas Gilbert

Quirky From Afar (Draft 8)

Quirky from Afar (Draft 8)

Sadly waving on
wonder why there’s no endless splash

The water seems shallow
the music seems cool

Oh sorrow drowning girl
wonder why you’d die
shed your feathers

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

Guess you’re a bye-bye
pretty song bird up a stage tree
who’s never seen an ocean wave hi

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

Oh mournful lady
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

wonder why
you’ve never seen an ocean wave hi

I mourn the 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
she has a beautiful way
to monetize sorrow

Oh 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 you 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

Leave your toady agent and your dreams
and let me be a non-toxic chatty drug
’cause I’d love to 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 you die young
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 an hour

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

don’t know why
beautiful girls die young
even when they can sing
sorrowful chirps and dirges on key

— Douglas Gilbert

Quirky from Afar (Draft 3)

Quirky from Afar (Draft 3)

I wonder why you’d die even with the
flattering and flutter of your fans, 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 mourn the fallen
song birds at dawn
with oatmeal, but sometimes

lunch is best
at breakfast time
with appetizers at sunrise

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
she has a beautiful way
to monetize sorrow

Oh 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 you 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

Leave your toady agent and your dreams
and let me be a non-toxic chatty drug
’cause I’d love to 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 you die young
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 an hour

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

don’t know why
beautiful girls die young
even when they can sing
sorrowful chirps and dirges on key

— Douglas Gilbert

Quirky from Afar (Draft 2)

Quirky from Afar (Draft 2)

I wonder why you’d die even with the
praise of your fans, and no I’m not
exactly a fan, no not exactly.

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

lunch is best
at breakfast time
with appetizers at sunrise

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

The trouble with the staid world
is that 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
she has a beautiful way
to monetize sorrow

Oh 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 you 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

Leave your toady agent and your dreams
and let me be a non-toxic chatty drug
’cause I’d love to 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 you die young
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 an hour

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

don’t know why
beautiful girls die young
even when they can sing
sorrowful chirps and dirges on key

— Douglas Gilbert

Quirky from Afar (Draft 1)

Quirky from Afar (Draft 1)

Screaming screeching birds and
angry tears in the rain, secretly
curling up with a soupy turmoil
that no one is willing
to unravel, and who
can’t spoon out comfort

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
she has a beautiful way
to monetize sorrow

Oh 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 you dance
in the bubble and cage
of the obscene show-biz scene
seen many be too serious

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

Leave your toady agent and your dreams
and let me be a non-toxic chatty drug
’cause I’d love to 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 you die young
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 an hour

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

don’t know why
beautiful girls die young
even when they can sing
sorrowful chirps and dirges on key

— Douglas Gilbert