I write everything, all the things that make no sound or movement, they're symbols. The shadows and catastrophes, the fears at the pit of my stomach, knot in my throat of uncried tears, the screams that make no sound and never make it out my mouth, the bundles up with tears later on. I write the hopes I had before disillusionment, about the valley of dreams and mountains of success I'll never be able to climb. The names of strangers and the strange faces of people I've never seen or met before in dreams, I write the stories and the personal accounts of the people I'll pass by on the street. I write of the decisions I passed up on and the road no one, in particular, or myself even, never took. I'll write of the color I saw when I was blinded with rage and tormented with the betrayl and coldness, blindness and indifference of the person I once lovedmore than anything or anyone, more than any taste or any song, any lyric or sunset or memory.I write and I write, for all the things I wish to remember and all those I wish to forget; the things that never happened and the things I wonder if they should have. I write to connect with the lost souls of people I once knew, or wish to have known or have never met. I write to make it real, all the intangible visions of nights and days alone and drowned with the world.I write to remember and I write to make it known, to remind myself that it happened, to establish some material peace and to abandon my past, my shames, my torments, my pain, my nightmare, and sometimes my reality.And sometimes I stop, blocked, my words take on new form. A punch into my pillows, fresh paint on the wall, stains ony my sheets, spilled coffee, I wonder what are my accidents, what is my reality, and how much of myself I've prevented and how much I've provoked - how much I've deserved and when and if my ill soul will be repaid with blessings or more pain, I wonder and am lost in life without a medium to admit myself. I am lost and my solace seeks melodies that comfort and someone else's words. I am lost and my emotion and thought abandons clarity and becomes color and sound, a tone deaf voice, my own expression, celebration, emotion and self comfort. My body speaks its own langauge and adopts the tune it chooses to symbolize all the things I can't say, all the words without meaning, the screams and whispers that never reach my mouth, that never leave my toungue, that never move my lips. I am lost and all destruction creates me, I am lost, but I am found in every way I create and start afresh and meet some soul, some stranger, that I connect to, in a way I spend nights and dawns and mornings and evenings trying not to forget, trying to record, trying to express, trying to make known there is hope, there is freedom, there is love, there is peace: through expression.