It was that wicked drug, Not some contagious bug, That caused a goodbye without a hug.
We certainly cried when you died, And our tears eventually just dried, Because your potential to shine was denied.
Even though you are dead, A fact that we all dread, After knowing what life you have led, And every battle that caused bloodshed, We are confident for what is ahead.
This poem is dedicated to my brother, who died at age 33 from an overdose on painkillers. I love you with all my heart and soul!