The Overthinker

Isn’t it beautiful?

How we keep pushing,

One step after another,

Because we know death is coming

But we’re not ready for her yet.

That’s the mortal part of us.

Look at everything in front of you still.

Isn’t it beautiful?

How we have a lifetime

To love and learn and try and fail and try again.

We may not witness forever

But yet we strive for it, for our own finite forever.

That’s the divine part of us.

–  We’re mortal and divine in equal parts; that’s the beauty of it all

With each stroke of their pen which they dipped into your soul before making the paper bleed, they immortalize parts of your essence, parts of you that may have existed for them only, but some part of you nonetheless.

Isn’t it beautiful, to be loved by a writer ?

The part of you that touched their heart will live on forever between the pages of a book on a shelf, on a crumpled up piece of paper, in between black and white letters on a computer.

There’s something timeless, eternal, about a writer’s love, isn’t it ?

At the sea below me 

And the sky above me 

And everything in between.

The good 

The bad 

The tears

The laughs 

The hurt 

And the love.

I’m staring 

At everything beautiful still

And I’m thinking

That every snow-covered step I took

Led me here.  

She actually was the kid

With the brightest smile 

I’ve ever seen.

She used to be so kind 

And soft.

Then, they happened.

They broke her heart 

Until she thought it stopped beating.

They made her bleed 

Again

And again 

And again 

For the hell of it.

She wasn’t born that cold 

But they did not deserve her warmth anyway.

Of me 

Is that I’m a haunted house in ruins.

The long version,

The one you get to

When you get through 

My walls,

Is that these breeches

Allow the outside light 

In

And

Let my inner light 

Brighten other ruins.