investigation into the death of a local poet

bashed his skull in
fragments of white
red stripes of blood
segment down his black
and white t-shirt

took his life quite rashly
quite ghastly really
he appeared so fine
the day before
his parents say
when dark turned today
they found him there
with half his brain
grasped in his hand
he must've got a fright
and grabbed his cerebral matter
when his skull collapsed

and the story lacks all detail
his diary found on sight
under the boy's bed
say he felt like a mannequin
soulless
and on retail
prostituted
with no excuses

his room messy
as his inner mind
his Shakespeare street shadows
turn towards the light
as if to say
and ask for a better day

his poetry senseless selfless
down at the hub the women blubbed and shocked
left speechless
and all of this comes down to life
and a sense of fright instilled in the infant's mind
\the hammer was black tar red and his wrists slit
which also bled
and me a newspaper boy will use this as a thoughtless ploy
to apply to society
teardrops found dried at the funeral
his coffin was guided by his beautiful parents
who admitted their errors and also the boys
who they said from birth
his life was a joy

and at the dark industrial sector
I recollect the shadows
and grab my own spectre
his death, I can't expect to understand
though it be grim
I felt the problem in the strewn suicide letter written:
to those who love
and also live
away on a whim
wait out today for tomorrow to begin:

I crumpled it up, I saw much of him in me
I saw his blood-stained poetry and with his will
the photo stills of his family
I knew the problem was in me, the writer
as much as I would admit the bloody hammer
we all do blame each other for blood
I think the problem was him