Writers are the most beautiful of artists.
Complex and unique.
They make the most exquisite, beautiful jewelry.
Every word sends out ripples like water,
sometimes you can see yourself staring back.
Some turn their words into pendants shaped like hearts, and teardrops and all manner of things.
And you can hang them on your heart, or in your head and you'll never take them off.
A writer writes about their monsters, crushes them to coal and uses them to make a forge.
But I, no, a writer I am not.
My words bleed from me, half congealed from the half-dead body they spilt from.
The other half already dust because you must live before you die.
But some people die before they live.
My words, lonely, lingering, they long for more to write about than emptiness.