Every now and again I get these ideas in my head, as if created years ago and I have to write them down.

For some reason though, I cannot slip them away in some drawer or save them on my computer just for me. I have this need to share, this weakness for opinion, and my dedication to this art somehow needs to be shown to the world. The fever, frenzy and fury that goes on in my mind has to be spilled on keys and turned into sentences. The fictional and non fictional metaphors twirling with the chaos of telling them apart has to be witnessed by more than just one pair of eyes. For some mysterious reason I pluck my mind of ideas, opinions, fantasy and reality and gloat about it as if depression were a trophy or pity a congratulations speech. Somewhere during those English classes and Writing 12 I devoured an appetite for out-bursting my thoughts, worries and random plot-lines and discovered fame. My passion will cave upon me as suffering transforms into golden details and rage exaggerated into nouns, verbs and conceeded contentment. Poetry they say shows all, but, I don’t believe in writing unless it does just that. I guess some would say I’m not afraid or that I’m typical crazy, but maybe I just need the world to understand who I am before I can create a better self.