Your life has twists and turns,

Like the way a coaster rides.

You hate to feel the burn,

Of the decisions you decide.

But, your conscience is in hiding,

From the alcohol you drink.

What’s the use in even fighting,

You use the drugs, and not the ink.

I’ve tried to help you so many times,

But you turn your back and run.

Even, Death and you seem to intertwine,                                              

The only thing you want is rum.

Where is the writer,

Who used to accept the pain?

He used to be a fighter,

And could accept the fame.

That brave man, is now gone,

to something he despised.

His body never to awake at dawn,

but it’s his soul that will always cry.

The words he brought to life,

Seemed to glide across the page.

The happiness torn by strife,                                                            

Should have been torn by age.

The return to Baltimore,

Should never have transpired.

Just one step through the wrong door,

All at once, he left what he desired.

He wanted help, but no one ever heard,

His painful cry, his every word.

He was desperate, he was lured,

To the one thing that he heard.

Now, he is no more, 

But the poems will be known. 

With his remains left on the shore,

Forever…all alone…