I write because the very essence of my soul demands it.
Hearts are weak, soft, and are hurt easy.
They bleed, and then cease to exist.
The soul is liquid forever
Moving at its own pace through existence
Mingling with others, and then splitting apart
Tirelessly spilling into new territory
Fearlessly cutting the terrain beneath it into cracks,
And yes, even canyons.
The fluidity of it is perfection.
And there’s no need to lead the way, it knows.
So denying it what it demands is folly.
My heart feels and seeks after inspiration,
But words are the implements of my souls grand design…