I am God's draft,
something He was meaning to finish but got distracted in the process with rainbows and tulips,
the birds and the bees
certainly the much more beautiful and riveting things.
I was born three days late
so I am always apologizing to other people for my tardiness but mostly to myself for constantly missing the good parts.
The angel who's keeping an eye on me would have six fat books of the lies I've shamelessly spat out for almost two decades now
and I wonder if they would let me stack them up so I could have even just a peek of what heaven looks like after Atlas finally decides to retire.
I constantly think about death, tragedy and loss.
Maybe it's because of my problematic playlist or the sick humor of my friends.
Or maybe it's just me trying to find meaning in everything
(In the back of my head I can picture the philosophers howling in laughter. )
Maybe it's because they know I'm meant just to be a draft.
I read somewhere that a work of art is never finished.