Your eyes gleamed over the
bridges of youth,
the kites that children raise
to the skies.
You wanted the earth to bow to you,
and called it freedom.
You called your pain and music– liberty.
The tragedy of each wasted day,
sad, glorious, and decidedly thrown away,
what rage you must have felt.
These flowers bloom in your martyred mansion.
Your fidelty to ideals, to liberate
though to your sad eyes a failure,
were truly blessings.
You liberated me, Cobain, and taught me
to face cruelty with bravery.