A Poem

Edgar Allan Poe, the poet
Always had a brilliant scheme, the theme
Of his works was pain, insane
They called him, just a whim.

People who really know Poe, the poet
Knew why he had to hide; no one to confide
In, he did not need a shrink, the drink
To him, ruined and saved; he was depraved.

The works of Edgar Poe, the poet
Sold for a shoe, he bade adieu
To all he cared for, nevermore
Pain and sadness, neverceasing madness.

Edgar Allan Poe's birthday was on the January 19, and I meant to post this back then but I ran out of time.
I think my poem is pretty confusing. Let me explain a bit.
Edgar Allan Poe's parents died when he was pretty young and ever since then he had experienced the death of many of his other family members.
He married his cousin who died of tuberculosis, the same disease that had killed his mother.
He took up drinking. He actually stated he never liked it, but drank because it took him away from real life for a little bit.
His most famous manuscripts were bought from him for very low prices. He was always struck for money, even though his foster father inherited a large fortune. Edgar Allan Poe was written out of his will.

He's my favorite person. Ever.