And so it goes...
Penemue 
He died in a hotel room.
An empty bottle of strength and an untouched bag of cocaine.
There just wasn't any fight left in him.
There wasn't much to him at all, most any man could hold his weight.
There were a dozen unchecked messages on his phone.
At least thirty more online.
But he knew that to check them was to live.
Too strong to live and too weak to die.
The one he wanted simply wasn't there.
You could call him selfish like I did.
You could call him brave or afraid or insane.
I did.
The newspapers ran his obituary on the page where it counts.
His funeral went on without incident.
His ashes: they went into that old apple orchard where his grandfather once stood.
His father never really stood up again.
The old man just faded out in front of the television.
His mother never forgave him.
Even after the cancer ate her breath.
His brother never spoke of him again, although his fame was far greater.
There was someone who never forgot him.
Never stopped loving him.
It wasn't me, I went back to work with bills to pay and a wife waiting at home.
Our child is beautiful.
Reader Comments (4)
The last two lines are so remniscient of something that's on the tip of my tongue, but it's not coming to me.
Tellin it like it is!! This is why this site is here.
Quite an ace, Joel; pushing up the ante with this marvelous piece. Rock on, broder mein.
Like walking on gravel with barefeet.