Monty's Poetic Years

Written by: Dylan Irvin

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