The Road Less Traveled

A study of poets who ended their lives,

Reveals a complex web of pain and strife,

Their words, immortalized in ink and page,

Speak volumes of a deep and hidden rage.

Sylvia Plath, who took her life too soon,

Her poetry still echoes in our rooms,

A tortured soul who fought against despair,

Her voice still ringing clear, though she's not there.

Anne Sexton, too, succumbed to the pain,

Her life cut short by her own hand's disdain,

Her verse a vivid portrait of her mind,

A glimpse of what she struggled to define.

And then there's Woolf, Virginia by name,

A writer who achieved immortal fame,

Yet she, too, found her struggles too immense,

And drowned herself, in sorrow and defense.

So many poets, lost to us too soon,

Their gifts, like shooting stars, burnt out too soon,

Their words, a lasting legacy to us all,

A beacon in the dark, a hopeful call.

But as we read their verse, we cannot help,

But wonder at the demons they once felt,

And pray that they have found a measure of peace,

That in death, their troubled souls found release.