that fall when
Richard took a gun
and blew out his poet brain
was the roughest of times for me
i had lost the love of my life
he was my favorite poet
when i read of him
how they had found his body
i almost cried
but couldn't
i was tapped out
did his gruesome death
keep me hanging on?
he was 49
i am 53
i owe him something
i have always been a little slow...........
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem