My constant, scoured poems are once again controlling my desire. I have to write. It is my outlet. It is my love. It is my strength in the pulverized image of my status. It is a threaded bracelet in the mix of all my shattered jewels, the ones that beg to be recognized as whole and individual. I, and I alone, can understand my own complexity. And I like that. Anyone who dares to enter can interpret in their own mode. But I, and I alone, am the owner of my own prose.