All of the words I locked behind a door in my head releases onto the page. Splatter, splatter; they spill onto the once carefully unmarked slate. Now I'd rather have vivid colors than an empty page. An empty life full of lies. The past is ugly, but it is poetry. I must embrace it because doing so means I accept me.I now interlace those colors with alien figures and brushstrokes. I become who I want to be. Leap. Love. Sing.My agony has now turned into the structure of a victory. Good morning.