Another white page stands up and you know in few hours you'll cover it up with this black ink you sometimes like to call your own blood. Flowers bloom on the corners, twisting and dancing along the border, along the words you wrote and re wrote over nights, words you crossed and released.
You write until the page curls up and refuses to lay flat anymore, so soaked with ink it wavers under your fingers. You learn the curves as well as the body of your lover, so touchable, so alive.
Words live. Words breath. They don't fit on one line all of a sudden or you don't do it the right way. Let them live. They are here to play, they are here to stay, and they're here to meet. Intertwined to create new ways of telling yourself and others something else than what they see.
Write. First with your heart... then with your mind. The feeling will stay genuine and your mind will accomplish the prophecy of art though oxymoron, emphasis, graduation, metaphors... Don't leave them draft or you don't love them enough to be a writer. For all the love you have never given, give it to them and they will return. Always. As long as your pen will slide and ink won't run dry, let it sail on this new ocean to be your creation. Your own creation. Your words. Life.
Whatever it takes, it does not matter anymore, you will split yourself and your guts on the walls of your own shelter and learn to feel this rush, grabbing your fevered heart so it can be left on the edge of your lips and become; Become the passion and the vital organ of one's life beating deep within. Words. You run out of breath on this faithful love, tainting your eyes because its already burning into your veins and your soul, as a never ending burst of fire.
This print of your soul, The One you have long yearned for, is here before your eyes. This is who you are.