pouring out my soul

The hardest thing about writing is knowing that there is no guarantee that my words will be loved or liked or even read. With each word and stroke of my pen, I am pouring out my soul-- one ounce and inch and atom at a time. I am turning my mortal being into immortal stories.  Stories that can be loved or hated or forgotten.

Some stories are written in poems and some stories are written in blogs. But it doesn't matter which medium you decide to use to tell your story, the same sickness will always reside in your stomach. 

Will they love me? Hate me? Will they even notice my existence?

There are trillions upon trillions of stars in the sky, billions upon billions of stories being told in every which way, why would they ever pick up my book and read it? My poem. My website that averages just 63 views per month. 

Yet I continue to peel away my skin and dig deeply through the veins, blood oozing down my fingertips, as I look for any bit of soul left to reveal. I can't help it. I am a writer. Love me or hate me or forget me, I must continue to write.