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After She Made It to the News papers life was never same again 
people recognised her as a POET, it became a blooming pain 
In Tesco everyone would look, in the chemist they would wink 
Being a famous Poet was harder than anyone would think 

She tried to solved her problem when in a red wig she would walk 
doesn't she look like Marie the poet everyone would squawk 
In the end she stayed in...

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If your art is good, as it feels in your bones

You will become known

Long after your ashes are sprinkled

And all of your senses are gone 

Particularly if you cut off your lobe

Or choose for yourself to end it all

Note scraps reveal queer love affairs

Poems show in the rubble of fallen walls

Fans will become obsessed

Frame you in the brightest light 

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I'm ok. Overworked and underpaid. 
But what's it to them, they have it all made. 
I'm tired and pained but if it wasn't for the gain,
I wouldn't be out slammin out here jammin like it's fame. 
If I knew what it was all about
In the end would they pay out?
If i saw through all the lies and the cheats,
If they didn't cover our eyes, mouth, and nose with the sheets, 
And we saw what the money...

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The flow I enjoy to come and go,

As I please with or against the breeze,

Like water flowing without the resistance,

Of opportunities for autographs or selfies

It is the privilege of the obscure majority,

To live without resistance to our liquidity,

To not owe every gratitude to new found difficulties,

I don't want fame, let me stay a minority.

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She drags tired heels

across a tainted floor,

poise slightly bowed

and her back is sore.

She holds on her face

a cold marble stare,

a hard life engraved

upon cheeks once so fair.

Her faulting movements,

once graceful; divine,

her aching limbs now

with guile, defy

her final performance

on this dark empty stage,

memories fleeting

of a much better age...

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You made yourself famous

And then what did you do?

You grabbed a lead hammer with both hands

Smote the thing with all your might

Saw the pillar crumble to dust, then

Shrunk from the strobe searchlight

Danced with the lowlifes

That flanked the waste ponds

Made life

Took life

Then revelled in all your failures

Trailing ragged, bleeding

Across the frozen hinterland...

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The breath had left her, not long ago.
Her face, pressed into the pillow
Drained black tears onto white linen.
Her fight had been lost; the long battle had ravaged her
And her iconic war paint scrawled ironic defeat in tracks
Down her pale skin onto paler sheets.

A motionless husk; as she lays there;
Her raven hair, unravelled from familiarity,
Fall's delicately on her back,
...

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