I won’t borrow style.
I will burrow into my wild, wild best.
Impoverished… It burns.
For there is so much to be brought forth.
So, in I go.
No bars to hold,
No scars to jade,
No point to prove,
No one to entertain…
My pen is free again.
As am I…
An awakening proved itself necessary.
So slumber shan’t stall stories from monumentally being built.
I relinquish my previous entries and exit onto a bare field.
I reminisce back to tabula rasa
(stated as status no more or not quite as much…).
I do due diligence in documenting the passage.
All is passing…
All this passion…
I’m enacting purpose filled action with no outcome attachment.
All is dancing…
So I smile as I type.
My pen is metaphorical.
It is rod, staff, caduceus… if you will.
I will… aligned with divine will…
I am of divine ilk.
Hence the divine ink.
Connotation to the winds…
Convocation of the wins…
They say the best things are to die for.
But aren’t the best things to strive for?
Successful struggles are ones we’re alive for.
It is easy to put words in the mouths of dead martyrs.
Who can truly die for another?
Yet who am I to cast anything…
least of all aspersions and assertions?
I am I… That’s who.
I am I. Is that you?
Then act like it.
To hell with political correctness.
Deception is war. So is politics.
It is a war on the use of your own good sense.
We trade responsibility hence power for the security of authorities
Am I doing this right?
No! If you have to ask.
I’m just doing me.
This one is for free.