And I try to breathe…When I heard in a song "freedom can make us feel contained" I thought of the happiness that has turned to contentedness that has allowed my pulse to be numbed by its morphine-And although I am no addict my veins throb with red wine blood that makes me pull my pitiless self together to rally my thoughts to connect with my heart, so congested with the love I bear for my other half - who, like me feels the words and wounds of the world. However he lives them through his work while I lie on his featherbed and let his ambition fill me to the point where my creativity is sedated. Because nothing can feel better than a lover's passion. But, ah-the pen scratches and bleeds so well on the paper. How easy it is to forget the fire that keeps us unsettled: lying in the belly until we ignite it against our darkness we are afraid to let free.
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