Jack T. Marlowe at Gutter Eloquence just took "Under a Bed," which is about my brother's suicide. It was psychically draining--yet important--to write the poem, and somehow it was just as draining to have it accepted (as if I had accomplished a quest undertaken by a ghost that took hold of my heart).
Marlowe is maybe the editor with the dubious status of being deepest in Hell. He reads people's addictions, deaths, and derangements, rejects a lot, publishes some. Whether this makes him great or damned, I don't know, but he picks out great terrible poems to present to his readers. He catches demon-stung expressions, places them on electronic walls, for us to peer at.
(However, I don't mean to imply that he is limited to such creatures. He publishes many, many things, all exceptional work)
I'm tired. I have a lot to do. I am grateful Marlowe is out there, doing what he does. I am also glad I am not he.