Arthur Miller once said that Marilyn Monroe "was a poet on a street corner trying to recite to a crowd pulling at her clothes."
It literally hurts me when people say that Marilyn was a slut or a whore or stupid. When the exact opposite is true. Marilyn was very intelligent, interested in politics and loving. Admittedly, she had her faults, all of us do.
A red-head too. She was beautiful, even today she is still regarded as a sex goddess. But that is not what she wanted to be. She wanted to be a mother someday. She even said so herself.
"I have too many fantasies to be a housewife. I guess I am a fantasy."
"The thing I want more than anything else? I want to have children. I used to feel for every child I had, I would adopt another."
"Fame is fickle and I know it. It has its compensations, but it also has its drawbacks and I've experienced them both."
She loved Beethoven records and reading Tolstoy and Whitman. She took literature classes at UCLA and acting classes, because she was forever trying to be better. She was a human being who had addictions and trials. She had miscarriages and was increasingly drawn into the world of alcohol and drugs to cope. She was endlessly unhappy with herself and the world around her. The world that couldn't accept who she was.
A human being. A woman who just wanted to be loved.
This is to my beautiful Marilyn Monroe. A poem I wrote just for you. Sweetest dreams.
Marilyn Monroe
A mad poet, dancing through space. You scribbled venom, running from fate.
A wandering prophet, searching the deserts for a glimpse of God, only to find
sand.
A Goddess, you longed for mortality. Wishing for someone to love who you
were, not who you had been. All the while holding a world that loved only
your beauty, never looking within.
A gypsy forsaken by the music, surrounded by glittering diamonds, but they
weren’t your friends. Pursued by men who never cared or ever would, all
they ever wanted was between your legs.
A million sparkling pieces, exploding and shattering, will you ever stop
spinning out of control? Will you ever find what you crave? More fragile than
you appeared, you were stronger than they knew.
Norma Jean was lost, found in the coffin of Miss Marilyn Monroe. Was the
price of that last kiss worth your soul? Did they truly love Marilyn Monroe?
Were you still Norma Jean at the end of it all?
Now you are an icon, worshiped and idolized, but did they ever look into those
beautifully broken eyes? Beloved by a generation, one that never understood
the scars that lay just beneath the skin.
