I write stories of people,
Who disappear,
Of the closest friends,
That were never near,

Of the heartfelt hope,
That was never here,
Of the crimson road,
That's, never clear.

I spent my money,
On diamond rings,
Liquor, hard drugs,
Menial things,

Things to replace,
What I'd lost,
I didn't care,
About the cost,

The hate in my heart,
A cumbersome load,
And a heavy soul,
Yet to be sold,

Off out in the night,
I began to ride,
And in the pale moonlight,
I had to confide,

Life is more,
Than I'll ever know,
Only a fool,
Would let himself go

So still I ride, to this day
Trying to find,
My own way.