Begin Again: The Stage’s Roar
Marcus owned the mic, his voice a thunderclap over the Seattle crowd. At thirty-five, he was a name, mixtapes climbing charts, a Grammy nod, his dreads swinging as he spit bars about hustle and heart. The buzz started young, thirteen, sneaking malt liquor from his uncle’s stash, the burn a thrill that drowned his mom’s yelling. By twenty, it was Oxy, a pill from a dealer after a show, the high a velvet wave that made the stage glow brighter. He’d pop one, then chase it with whiskey, the combo his fuel, lyrics sharper, nerves gone, the roar of fans a god he worshipped. “Just part of the game,” he’d grin, flask in his pocket, pills in his bag. Addiction wasn’t a shadow then, just a spark, a partner in his rise, its danger masked by the stage’s electric hum.
The High’s Crown
Fame fed the beast. Marcus’s nights were a blur, sold-out venues, VIP booths, bottles and baggies on tap. Oxy was his muse, three pills a set, whiskey shots between rhymes, the high a crown he wore with swagger. He’d stumble off stage, eyes glassy, crowd chanting his name, and feel invincible, king of a world he’d built from nothing. His wife, Aisha, saw it, slurred verses at home, pills spilling from his jeans, but he’d laugh, “I’m good, baby, this is me.” The music faltered, studio sessions missed, lyrics half-baked, but the high kept him afloat. His son, Jamal, drew pictures of Daddy with a mic, not a bottle, and Marcus clung to that lie. Addiction wasn’t a problem, it was his edge, his reign, a crown he didn’t see slipping toward ruin.
The Fall’s Echo
The crash hit hard, a viral video the spark, Marcus, mid-show, collapsing, foam at his lips, Oxy and booze a toxic dance. The crowd gasped, paramedics rushed, and the headlines screamed: “Rapper OD’s On Stage.” He woke in rehab, forced there by Aisha’s tears and a label ultimatum, the detox a hell of shakes and screams. Thirty days clean, he swore it was done, back home, sober gigs, Jamal’s smile his anchor. But the streets called, old dealers, old bars, and six months later, he relapsed, a bottle in hand, pills down his throat. Aisha left, Jamal in tow, her voice breaking: “You’re killing us.” The paparazzi caught it all, Marcus staggering, a liar unmasked, his father’s disappointed call a knife: “I raised you better.” Addiction wasn’t a crown anymore, it was a noose, its echo a fall that broke everything he’d built.
The Cycle’s Weight
Relapse became routine, a cycle Marcus couldn’t shake. Clean for weeks, then a slip, whiskey at a club, Oxy from a fan, the high a fleeting throne he couldn’t resist. Each fall was public, TMZ clips of him slumped in alleys, fans turning to haters, his name a punchline. He’d wake in motels, head pounding, shame a weight heavier than the drugs. “I’ll start again,” he’d rasp, detoxing alone, the shakes a penance, but the beast waited, bars on every corner, dealers texting his burner. Aisha wouldn’t answer, Jamal’s drawings gone, his father’s silence a void. The stage was cold now, gigs scarce, the roar replaced by whispers of failure. Addiction was a treadmill to hell, every restart a fight, every slip a deeper cut, its danger a weight he carried alone, too stubborn to seek the help he needed.
The Dawn’s Resolve
A year sober, Marcus stood in a basement venue, fifty seats, his voice raw but steady. No pills, no flask, just water, his dreads tied back, scars of the cycle etched in his eyes. He’d hit bottom, a bender that left him in a ditch, rain-soaked, a stranger’s call saving him, and clawed back, this time for real. AA meetings, a sponsor’s gruff voice, nights writing bars about the fall, each day a brick in a shaky wall. The high still whispered, clubs he passed, fans offering shots, but he’d breathe, spit a verse, hold the mic like a lifeline. Aisha watched from afar, Jamal sent a letter, his father called once. The stage was small, the crowd quiet, but Marcus felt it, dawn, a resolve forged in the wreckage. Addiction’s hell had nearly killed him, its danger a shadow he’d never outrun, but starting again was his fight, a fragile victory he’d claim one rhyme at a time.
Begin Again - Marcus’s Poem
Verse 1
Marcus spits fire, the stage his crown,
Dreads whip wild, the crowd bows down,
A malt at thirteen, a teenage dare,
Oxy joins, a haze so rare,
The roar lifts high his raw renown.
Verse 2
Bottles clink, the pills ignite,
A throne of buzz in neon night,
Three a set, the whiskey flows,
A king unbound, the high grows,
Addiction cloaks its grip from sight.
Verse 3
The fall crashes, a viral scar,
Foam on lips, the mic too far,
Rehab binds, a forced retreat,
Aisha weeps, “You’ve lost your beat,”
The crown slips low, a broken star.
Verse 4
Clean days fade, the streets reclaim,
A shot, a pill, the old game’s flame,
Jamal’s gone, her door slams shut,
Paps catch slurs, a public cut,
Addiction carves a deeper shame.
Verse 5
Relapse loops, a treadmill’s grind,
Motel floors, a fractured mind,
“I’ll start again,” he chokes, alone,
The shakes return, a bitter groan,
Each slip a weight he can’t unwind.
Verse 6
A ditch at dawn, rain soaks his frame,
A stranger’s call breaks losing game,
AA’s chants, a sponsor’s call,
Bars rewrite the endless fall,
The fight ignites, a fragile claim.
Verse 7
One year free, a basement stage,
Fifty seats, his voice engages,
No flask, no haze, the words ring true,
A father’s nod, a son breaks through,
Addiction hums, a caged rampage.
Verse 8
Begin again, the dawn’s refrain,
A cycle scarred, a will regained,
Hell’s echo stalks each sober stride,
Yet Marcus stands, his pride revived,
A battle won through ceaseless pain.
