I can write
line upon line of flowery attractiveness

I can write
ferocious strokes of blood thirsty madness

I can write
obsession to the point where it’s painful

I can write
tears and melancholy in a whirlwind of pain

I can write
a fountain of pure undulated joy or pleasure

I can write
at the epic ****** of desperation with nowhere to turn

I can write
dark deep emotions in the depths of a soul

I can write
sparkling emotions, beautiful to the point of being blinding

But, despite it all
at the end of the day
It doesn’t change that
I am terribly, horribly, completely inexperienced
with my imagination keeping me afloat