Ernest Hemingway encouraged the soul to "write hard and clear about what hurts." I've never been able to forget that. We all have our demons, I wrestle mine into volumes of prose, deeply carved by lips swollen with the naivete of poetry.
I sing to myself and stay up late, enamored by the beauty of shy glances, multicolored 3-day old bruises, yellowed lace & last night's lipstick. Constantly daydreaming of the ocean, desert sunrises, and lush forests, I dance across this earth in search of self-love & light with all three eyes open, rainbows in my hair, and the sun on my skin.