The ideas barrage me like flower petals shot from an air cannon.
Quietly, forcefully, softly.
The smell of creative juices as they meld arouses deep passions and long forgotten dreams.
To write, oh to write, even if it's not right.
Thank you God for giving us the power of thought.
How is ink made? Yes, I want to know.
Paper I'm familiar with, but ink is but a mystery.
Why don't I know more about the powerful fluid that I continually smear across the page.
It drips from me, bleeding from my pours.
Take it from me, let it out. It's all I have to give.
All that is real. All that is now.
Hesitation fills the mind with anxiety. This is the language of of anguish, the code of pain and fear.
Hesitation to live, to act, and to bleed.