Feast on my words
for I am the dead poet.
Ink to the paper
the past is my moment.

Written down to the second,
the minutes might say.
History's forgotten
the battles will rage.

Sentenced for crimes,
my expressions are free.
Lock me up in the cell,
nothing taken from me.

The thoughts in my head
will always remain.
Touched by the emotions,
the abuse and some pain.

Pent up with the silence,
speak up with the truth.
Explode with your pen,
no moment is mute.

Now I lay in the ground,
dead as the others.
Remember my words,
fellow poets,  my brothers.