Anatomy of a writer

The way I see it, all the writers are a bit like this.

All them writers, poets, and composers. They all have a curse. 
Their memory and their time, their love and their pride. They all live in another world.

They will forget about the keys inside a house or even lose their soul there.  They will forget about what you said yesterday, about those late night news that everyone was talking about. They will forget why they are alive. They will forget why they though there was so much pain yesterday. They will forget about themselves, sometimes. They will cry for no reason. But some of them are already so dry they wont shed a tear for nothing at all. Some of them won't let you read them. Some of them won't let you write them.

Writers will remember you, though. And if they love you, They will love you forever.
They will immortalize you inside of a beautiful hand made mess, made out of words.
They will create a goddess out of you, as the letters unite, time after time. They will carry you wherever they go, even if you are miles away. 

They will remember the first kiss. And the way your eyes looked on that night. They will remember about details that no one ever knew they were there. They will remember how you like your food, what makes you smile, and what makes you cry. They will remember the taste of your lips. They will raise you inside their world and feed you love. And they will remain in love, cause their love, and their words, are forever. And even when you are gone, you will keep the pieces you took with you forever, and they will know they will never get it back.

All them writers, poets, and composers. They all have a curse. 
They love like they should but live like they shouldn't.