Dead Poets

To the days when life feels poetic.
And you find yourself speaking in metaphors.
Welcome to my life....
When the words want to burst out of you, and even though you are too tired to think, you are too full of life to sleep.
Your cup runneth over.
Slowly crunchy, brown leaves fall to the ground. The world is crunchy and quiet. All that is heard is the slow, crackle beneath your feet. The sky is cold and clear, the air pushing through your coat with desperate chill. Cheeks so red.
You live for this moment. You are a romantic, living off the words slipping from your tongue.
What am I going to do with my life now?
I had always loved English. I loved the way words fit together, how they sounded, how they looked. I was physically attracted to the shape of some words. This is a very odd thing for me to admit.
I weeped at the pain and the beauty in life. To enjoy a painting, to play a piece, to write a poem. Something about it, something resonated deep within my chest.
A complete expression, a complete understanding.
Too much life, too much love, too much thinking.