...I fell in love with literature at an early age. She electrified the space within the four walls where we spent time. She captivated me for there appeared between her pages, different stages and personalities. Her intellect spelled me. She rhymed sometimes and it compelled me. I fell for her so hard, I sought only to recreate her within my own world. I did so, but 'twas a difficult task. She flirted not with any such regularity allowing me some shallow celebration after a seemingly sensational session with my own PEN. I satisfied my friends, filled worlds with glee when I decided to do me. BUT, my conscience I meet at each door with difficulty. I prefered not to forget she. Oh, she flaunted fluid fashions and vented versatility. I wanted a piece of her for my own, like Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe. My goals reincarnated served as the muse and no matter how confused a day made me, I never denied to write of my dreams...my loves lost last night or the reasons why the moments shined brighter at night. Some days, here she lay in my arms and I dare not delete my conceit. Lying beneath me her eyes gleam like krimson laid under kreme. The universe at this second seems like so much. Though, I lose her touch at times, I know she'll come back. She really will come back. In my own world she's mine.
...My impressions of the world stands thick as intellectual thought. Who would I be, or where, if I choose not to share. Selfishness, is unbecoming of an artist!
