Suicidal Novelist

Beyond the confines of the horizontal stripes I lay my pen to is where my neck resides; a place hidden for reasons only known by those who seek its existence.

This ancient arena guarded by poets past is the birth place of love, where all mediocrity parishes revealing secrets of death and silence.

I am out there; in the everlasting meadows meditating, wondering why people are so malicious when all we have to do is love, unconditionally.

My sun sets only by choice, splitting apart purple skies with hues of lavender and violet returning to dimensions not yet discovered by such contrary beliefs.

As for the metaphysical: it is just a name given so the unimaginative can cope with not understanding; yet I play in these open plains daily, completely unrestricted.

I release all attachments, leaving behind any resentment quickly surpassing such qualms I once thought relevant. Here and now contitutes the only importance.

Must one pass before true recognition is released? We execute prior to exaltation only allowing the legacy of those deceased to carry through.

On these grounds of contention a suicidal novelist I must become, embracing all that was, is, and will be. Let my stories arise vibrations forever told…