I drink poison; ink washes over my tongue with the bittersweet taste of inspiration. These words are my prison: whispers of lost drift across my heart. Words leak out of my skull, seeping like blood; they burn my skin like the sting of elusive flames. I lower my ink-stained hand to ravaged paper and words trickle out of my veins. I have days when I write down my dreams and they become nightmares. But it's ok 'cause this is how it feels to have your imagination chained to your heart. I've learned that life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about dancing in the rain.
The truth is that I studied silence to learn the music and I joined the sinful to regain innocence. Sometimes my mind is singing bloody hymns with battered rhytm and broken voice and my failing vision is clouded by smoke and cracked glass. If I had a world of my own, every thing would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't.
I can't do that, so when I'm writing I just want to go to that world between asleep and awake when I'm still dreaming.
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