Why do you write?
Because I feel pure Love - pouring from my fingertips;
Etching the lines and swirling an architecture of my irritatingly indecisive, incandescent, hellish mind.
It bides my time, binds by belligerent cries, and confides and purges it into prose.
I suppose, it mustn’t make much sense to some.
Do I stop? Well, I don’t wish to stay shtum.
Swashes, swatches, colours, scratches - it all tickles the itch;
Where most often I feel, in my brain, there’s a glitch.