Inspiration in the eyes of many

He rushes over the wall

Into the woodlands

Fully dressed in his rehab atire

Sunglasses masking his face

His chains still attached


His mind is only set on the


The attachment

The addiction

The deep, black, gaping hole that is

ever growing

Punching out all thoughts of optimism


His daughter, forgotten

His wife’s words stinging his mind

His friends, against him

His mum, ashamed

The thorns provoking his clammy white skin

Are no where near as painful as this

Tearing off chunks

Of what is left

Of his skinny frame


He is there

At the end

A garden shack


A heroin kit with his name on it

Followed by a shotgun, straight from above

His favourite cigerettes lie on the table

It’s as if an angel has bestowed gifts

In order to ease his passing


He smoked his last drag

in order to calm his mind

Cooked his heroin




Floated… Floating…

To the caves…


Full of sounds and smells…

So many kinds of smells…

Far away from people….


His subconscious slowly, gently lifted the shotgun

To the back of his mouth

Thoughts drifting like clouds

Time slowing down

Dribbling on the barrel

He pulled the trigger





Far away from-uh p-people…


To-uh a cave-er full-oh of so…sou-und…smells…