Winter Dawn Is The Color

I Must Get My Soul Back From You; I Am Killing My Flesh Without It.

The Blood Of Love Welled Up In My Heart With A Slow Pain.

Nothing Stinks Like A Pile Of Unpublished Writing, Which Remark I Guess Shows I Still Don't Have A Pure Motive (o It's-such-fun-i-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) About Writing.

You Ask Me Why I Spend My Life Writing? Do I Find Entertainment? Is It Worthwhile? Above All, Does It Pay? If Not, Then, Is There A Reason?... I Write Only Because There Is A Voice Within Me. That Will Not Be Still.

Now I Am Silent, Hate Up To My Neck, Thick, Thick. I Do Not Speak.