Inside a person of passion it is hard to contain ones feelings
To divulge the heavenly highs and the lake of fire lows is a necessity
Just like breathing is to you.

It is my therapy
It is my lifeblood.

To splash the inner workings of my soul onto the canvas like an artist would
Only my art is the English language
And the portraits I design are pieces of my heart as much as imprints on my mind
Their paintings come to life with vibrant colors and rich textures
Whereas mine jump off the page with truths from the bottom of my soul
Whether wretched torments that afflict
Or the victories I embrace
I am either soaring on wings of eagles
Or languishing amongst the darkness in pools of blood.

I live in between, as you or the next person might, but I write beyond the mundane
I find no passion inside the ticking clock of a day job or in a trip to the grocery store
Napping is bliss but I would never reward it in written word.

Where she takes my essence or how her lips taste or the way she glanced at me
These are to be captured in a poem
The sheer joy that she provides me with
Is given back one hundred fold by the beauty and magnificence of poetry
Because in those moments we are alive
And if we are alive, there is hope
Hope for something better
And a faith in things unseen
These are intertwined and foremost in my heart, with a heavy dose of pulsating love
This is the seasoning of my life.

To ebb and to flow, to crash and to burn
But if I live without love then I shall stay in the womb or climb back in, if I must
These are the ravings of a sound mind
A heart led life at its finest
And I shan’t ever require anything more.