wont rest in peace

needing some new inspiration.. some fresh material.. a biblical metaphore of a page too spiritual... where are those souls who inspired life from me those that required death and nothing less than a burrial ground of my words profoundly written on a tombstone so correct, that left respect, that let you inteject your not needed opinion but still, I listened . I licked your thoughts and tasted your tears and imagined what any of it would be worth in distant years. Injesting time in a rhyme that required some need of inspiration provocation and a leathal weapon injected in my veins because my thoughts can not quite contain the value of words webster could provide and I feel like a part of my lyrical soul just died so I rest in peace never resting again until the next time I put down my pen.