It's due to this empty page,
aching for the spill of ink,
onto its crisp unwritten face.
Waiting for emotions to spill
from within the creators dreams,
and nightmares in a bloody mess,
of anger and fear, or a misty hue of
Pages unwritten come to life as the ink
touches the surface in a rush of black and red.
The pages in which I write,
breathe in the color and spread it from
it's surface. the words and images
in which I bleed shall be read and remembered
by their brilliance and meanings.
The beauty in which they form is carried by the
imagination and passion for what I live.