I try to stay true to my voice as I write. I tend to live in the moment and ride the emotional ride that is coursing through my body, letting it wash over my entire being and feeling it down to the dark pit inside me. I want to bathe in the emotion of the time, and let it take me away. It’s easier that way. I bleed, I write, and then I try to heal. If not, well then the scar paints another slash across the landscape of my inner being. It’s hard to try to get your work on the page. I feel as I’m cutting into the depth of me, and letting the blood spill on the page. At times, my poetry and my prose it’s more than blood. Blood oxidizes and has it’s own little death. Yet my words, they don’t die. When I release them onto the page, they take on a life of their own and give birth to more emotions inside of those who read them. They change and grow in the minds and hearts of others. I want to touch the world. I hope my work connects. I hope my writing steals a piece of them and then my work and their emotions give new birth to more art. I bleed on the page so that I may keep my sanity and not scream into the silence. Do not let your soul die. It is the one immortal piece that extends past all dimensions. My words are but a mere stain on the canvas of this life, but it changes the outcome. It affects the ever lasting, ever changing product of creation and existence. I write. I breathe.