A Poet With Cracked Heels

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A Poet With Cracked Heels

I have lived to walk miles with barren feet,
A dead sole of barefoot that clumsily went bleak,
Regardless of journeys that seemed blanketed by sorrow he never succumb to defeat,

Prolonged into his journey of writing like infants manifested by hunger,
Motherly instincts kicked in he would never let his thirst go to slumber,
Without any sort of quench,
He desired to drink from its endless pouring of blisters just to ease his thirst,

Feet were bleeding through pages of life,
Like scraping a smooth skin with a blunt knife,
The agony thereof lingered in he couldn't write,
Took a left turn but he knew writing was the right he could forever plaster through notepads of life,

His will was over shadowed by a journey of a thousand miles,
Pen held in his hand, he no longer writes but let's the ink overflow with bleed,
The agonizing talent of his abilities could be felt like Braille to blind people,
He was no hero because his writes have offspringed nothing but feeble,
What do you make of words?
Is it a curse or is one gifted?

Im just a poet with cracked heels,
I have endured the most in this journey,
Even though at days i go without any penny,
I shall keep writing because my abilities are comfort to many

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