Monty's Poetic Years

Well Monty drank, smoked, and shot up till his mind was numb He had to live with his choices and he wanted to forget some He once said “Anyone can be happy, but those stories have all been heard before, It’s the tales of troubled days and sinister ways that I write for. It’s not the story of the loaf of bread, it’s the story of the dropped crumb. And if you wanna’ be a poet you gotta live in the trenches and you gotta’ be scum.” Monty raked all of his friends into a pile and let the wind blow them away Saying if they were meant to stay on the tree, then they would find a way And before he knew it his addiction raped him bone dry Food and water was no longer all he needed to the get by The streets became his home and the gutter became his bed His hunger couldn't be fed, his words were now shriveled and unread Monty cut off his toes so they’d fit into the shoe And picked the pedals off his rose just to watch where they flew Searching for his lost ghost, following it’s transparent cries He began to ash his cigarettes into it’s eyes Monty was in the stages of insanity, and he lost all of his vanity Death teased him behind every corner, loving the way he begged Monty had no feelings anymore, he had no pencil or paper to catch his tears All he had left inside were his stories of a crumb and his poetic years with scum