The last  poem that stood the  earth
Traveled hard, traveled long
Yearning its words to be read
To be heard, to be understood
Bred from the thoughts of a poet
To be carved in the finest parchment
By the sharpest of quills
Bleeding in its own ink
To be felt, once read,
As it was when once born.

-The silence held in a once poets mind.
My mind is a desert
Thoughts and tears
It's rain.

A once lavish field
Turned to a sandstorm
Of lies and pain.

With a shell as hard
As the deserts land
my once freedom lies
In the enemies hand

Forming around is a crust
Of stone
To protect, the very little
I still call my own.

Thoughts no more-
The once strong and bold
Have now
Dried and shriveled
And are
Buried deep in some hole.

I drain these once were words
Turned to thoughts.
From my pen, to paper
Yet you still refuse to read them.
As my pen ink drys
And tears subside.
Thinking this road,
Has come to an end, for tonight.
I swig my whiskey,  
Stare in my mirror,
Are you going to let them stop you?
All of your fears?
I curse to God, for he's  the only one who cares.
Light a smoke, as it rolls to my eye
The last of my ink, in my pen has died.
These words are no good,
Yet these thoughts, must be read.
I must carry on,
The message in my head.
I grab my worthy pen,
"Let's make history my friend "
Jabbing it's point to my heart
Filling it with my thoughts,
Torn apart.
Now I will write in blood
My thoughts of strength flood
My mind sets free
As my heart still bleeds.
Dying slowly, I smile
Finally you see my style.
Read these words, of once was I
Then burn them with my soul aside
Set them free to the sky
Scattered ashes, say goodbye.