Life is Short. So is this book

#87

He is a poet. Pain doesn't affect him the way it does the rest of the world.
Like the rest, he doesn't burn photographs; doesn't run after therapy sessions. He doesn't drown himself in alchohol or cloud himself with cigarettes.

Instead, he scratches his wounds everyday, and never lets them heal. He collects all the pain flowing inside his heart, waters the seed of sorrow with tears and nurtures it with broken promises and the shared memories.

The moment every single cell of his heart is replaced with the pain; the instance his soul gets crushed under its weight; the second his fragile heart no longer can bear the pain and bursts, he dips his pen into the pain and empties his heart onto the paper as poetry, to create a masterwork that's cherished for ages to come.