The Void Poem by John Fenton Mcleish

Why is it that all the greats die so young
Morrison, Hendrix, Bonham, Scott and moon
If they had lived what songs they would have sung
Yet they were taken from us o too soon

Unaware of their own mortality
Lost in a nightmare of alcohol, drugs
Immaturity turns fatality
Fame shall not be a substitute for love

Searching for answers that will never come
The void cannot be filled from the outside
From your problems impossible to run
And definitely no place to hide

Don't look for others to make yourself whole
For inside is where you must heal your soul