To Break A Wordsmith...

Blessed are the Blood Writers, who stop time in their words,

Cursed they are for they immortalize their pain as well,

This unique talent is their boon and their bane,

For when you write with your lifeblood, you carve into history,

Thereby you create heaven, but also hell,

Writers preserve memories of everything, irrespective of being good or bad,

It is a cruel culmination that they remember all who broke them, a sadistic mystery;

Forged in their blood are the words they scribe,

Every punctuation, an ode to a curve of a body, never forgotten,

There are not many who live their words as they write them,

Dwindling are their numbers, For how will they survive?

Wherefore do they find solace? All their demons they themselves hath begotten,

When you break a Writer's heart, you shall still be there in all the words they forge,

In their memories and their poems, you shall forever thrive;

Every word is written in red, embedded in their very soul with blood,

All the times when they promised their soul,

Entire universes of emotion consolidated into the written word, condensed into sentences,

Every poem is a sketch of a time lived, of moments envisioned, of experiences promised,

In dearth of love, in want of trust being kept, they fear: Will they ever be whole?

To have worlds within yourself, O! what a beatific burden,

To exist in multiple worlds and constantly try and merge all your realities of experiences missed;

 Blood is their ink and the soul their parchment,

All the full stops, the ellipses, and the semicolons are "I love you"s & "goodbye"s in code,

They are wordsmiths who forge maps with their words: Maps routing an emotional journey,

The journey of their moments with you, Entire lifetimes unlived;

Never shatter a Blood Writer, for then you destroy worlds: Unmake cognitive roads,

For these Wordsmiths are not immortal, yet their words are,

They exalt living in absolution, & why not? When from your words, entire lifetimes can be revived.