My Art Bleeds

 

My art bleeds from my being to the page like a free flow of crimson leaving a wound. My words speak for themselves from the subconscious caves of my mind, released for the taking. My soul screams for my creation. No control, no direction. It is what it is, cannot be tamed. My writing is not my own, for I am in a state of dreamy unawareness as my fingers dance along the key board. Art is meditation. Art is life. Art is a pacifist, an acceptor of all things. Art is freedom. We all have it within us. Find yours and it will set you free.

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