Black ink from my reservoir pen,

twists on an uncontrolled surface.

Like a contorted vane too tired to revolve,

I compose in my head my last contentions.

The last thing I wanted to do, was to hurt any of you.

For reasons you just can't see, the pressure was getting to me.

My demons were not effortless,

a dark coil inside of me needed to be released.

It was like lacerating a butterflies wings.

I hunger for you to know I never meant to cease.

The last thing I wanted to do, was to hurt any of you.

For reasons you just can't see, the pressure was getting to me.

I recognize I don't need your absolution, and you don't need mine.

Take every segment of me including my love, compassion and voice

and transmit it to the masses. 

Find solace that I am now where I need to be.

The last thing I wanted to do, was to hurt any of you.

For reasons you just can't see, the pressure was getting to me.

suicide is supposed to be a

("private") affair

but i cant help but think about

the lives that were lost

to internal pain

doesnt matter if you don't know the guy

i didn't and yet here i am

empathizing with that pain

because i was there once

in that same circumstance

juggling the ("dos") and ("donts")

(it hurts more than you think)

(the constant fear of betraying yourself)

all i can say really

try not to do things that you know will hurt later

think about the people in your corner

and if you dont have anyone

think about the people that could be

somehow

some way.

Born of grunge and metal's mirth

Beneath the pouring rain,

Swarmed Seattle; legend's birth

Incorporating pain.

Troubled childhood, feeling down

Within depression's clutch,

Chris Cornell, against a frown,

Ensnared a hopeful touch.

Sparking much debate in school,

Religion took a fall,

Hence removed from off the spool

As Chris had questioned all.

Drugs escaped into his mind

And solo seemed the path

He would walk as albeit blind,

Until musician's math

Forged a bond as guitars strummed

And drums in pounding beat

Measured in the way he hummed-

A symphony complete.

Gardens made of sound arrived;

The friendship formed a band.

Intercession, songs survived

And guided Chris's hand.

Rusty cages seemed outshined

And more so, I suppose.

Moving melodies defined

A Jesus Christ like pose.

Spoonman sung in deepest rays-

A black hole sun's delight.

Fell on darkened, blackest days

The way he lived in night.

Pretty noose foreshadowed doom;

A burden in the palm.

Blowing up the outside gloom,

The rhinosaur brought balm.

Black rain fell in drops of thought

As phantoms telephoned.

Been away too long and bought

The crooked steps he zoned.

Slave to audio conformed

As in between the the time

Garden of the sound reformed

To sink in the sublime,

Chris Cornell enjoyed a stay

As new friends jammed in tune.

Like a stone, they learned to play

The highway and the rune.

Be yourself- a mantra's gift

And time had come to pass.

Doesn't call reminder's lift

As out of exile's class

Fire, original in flame,

In revelation's scheme

Burned the solo album's game

As if some sort of dream.

No such thing, a scream long gone,

And many singles sung-

Finally the heart of stone

Forgotten settled, hung.

Temple of the dog avowed

Unsettled pasts revived.

Chris did all he was allowed

And for a while he thrived.

Never known, the reason why

Detroit became the place

Seeds were sewn as his reply;

A sadness filled his face.

Songs performed were not the same,

Conditioned on the ride.

Chris Cornell, a hallowed name,

Committed suicide.

This is for his wife and kids;

The Fans he left behind.

Sadness beckons as it skids

Across the bump and grind-

Friends will not forget the man

Enlisting lyrics writ.

Concerts from the deepest span

Ensure he will not quit.

Lost forever to the earth,

Inside us Chris will give.

Born of grunge and metal's mirth,

His death calls us to live.