The page is the tourniquet, and the ink is the blood. Bleeding ink soaks upon the page, as it pours from the pen. Catching every drop, and drinking it in. Soon the page of white will be covered by thought seldom ever said. If the page had a voice that voice would echo with a thunderous roar or let out a deafing cry. Plagued by thoughts. Pained by emotions. The writer bleeds upon the page to let go, and move on. The writer bleeds upon the page to feel whole again.

– Jamie Whorton©