For the eerie unsung melodies echoing in my Carnegie soul. The unpainted Van Gogh masterpieces hung on the walls of my mind. For the epic saga drafts Spielberg dropped in my dreams. And my Audrey Hepburn side no one will ever see.
I write for the kisses that tripped off my tongue on their way to his lips but fell lifeless. For every word dyslexia twisted, and every dream my memory erased. For the showers that told me I’m Whitney Houston, and the nights I believed I was Allen Poe.
I eat, I sleep, I breath, I write- It’s the only way I know to survive, I write to keep me alive.