A thought on a page

' sometimes i think the only thing il ever amount is to just to write.there is a cold space,open and euphoric,between a writer and his page,full of ill intentions and slaughter,bliss and dreams.But true passion is never ending but ever demanding! It gives way to guilt and gives into fear and whatever the mind wants to process and learn. What a blessing. What a curse...and although i may never be silent,and my thoughts may wonder into obscurity... I am once again at my best! And ode to freedom,a lament to heartache,a sonnet to darkness...and a page of black ink traces of empty loneliness.I am content...