He never littered so his pockets smelled of cigarettes and sweets

This caused a poor reaction from the ladies

But mother nature loved him dearly  

He made songs out of junk
Rusted melodies played
A poet of high caliber
A mind of high grade brain work

A bottle and a sniff
A word and a smoke
out comes the guilt

I often ask him why he needed these calamity riddled confines

Sometimes he would whisper his replies

Because he worried the gods could hear him

He lost his mind inside a ghost town

Time stained structures watched the regression

A soul needing silence

Instead he found childhood fear and crumbled

I went to visit him on the fifth floor

Psych wards terrify me
not because of it's inhabitants
But the fear they won't let me leave

I found him playing connect four

He claimed his competitor was a monster

nobody in sight

He said he was writing a novel

The pages he showed me contained
beautiful images and hysterical assumptions

Yet they made my soup filled stanzas seem reasonable

Only his circle could decipher his words and symbols

The final product was too mad for the casual observer

It's pages made scenes of unspeakable horrors and unlimited joy

We buried him next to his dog

He always claimed she was the only one who gets it


"Great poets die in steaming pots of sh*t." (Charles Bukowski)