I’m not even in the mood to write but I’m so cursely expressive that as soon I sit to sip a glass of wine or chew on my hair like a silly habit, I must and always blow a fuse in my brain with fiery thoughts that cloud over me like bad weather. I’m such a insatiable woman when it comes to getting weight off of my chest. I either say too much, not say enough or misconstrue my own trail of thoughts and be deemed as unrealistic, insane or unfair. My eyes are diaphanous and I can never hide sorrow. There’s something about the romance in my bones. It comes to a boil when I am alone. I crave what I write about and then I crave it some more. I give epitomes of my own self, fulfill self fulfilling prophecies and I boot myself so low its hard to really tell where my self esteem rests. But this has nothing to do with the way I feel about myself but everything to do with how I think I should feel. I don’t want to be promised empty pages for my heart is built like a speedometer. Romance is my fuel and all gestures, remarks and deeds are my gauges. I run on love and my soul is as tender as the time between miles. I am a burning woman and I long for things I would do for me if I were a man. For it takes no strenuous muscle work to compliment my body, my soul and my mind. I adore flowers; from alstromeria to hydrangea. I feel so weak and so achingly taken for granted I almost feel exhausted. Where did my deserving factor go? Every blemish on my body and every rotten habit of my mind all should never go unloved. I should never cry so awful and hurting unless its death I mourn. My cheeks feel stained and my heart is a drum, beating out of time, out of bump, just beating becoming numb. I never want to feel guilt for always having a deep ocean of thoughts titancing on my mind. They should be slowly spewed out like pouring hot coffee with the anticipation of the first sip being blissfully beautiful but so daringly risky. My heart is tired and I’m confused. As I continue to write alone.