For a writer, life is like a tale that he's trying to narrate with his spilled words. Each time when something happens in his life, be it a butterfly flying in his stomach or the death of it that he mourns, he tries to capture the love or the agony that he is feeling.
He scratches his interiors and squeezes all his emotions to extract the actual essence of it and he bottles them up in his mind. Then he sits down with the tears flowing in his eyes, blood bleeding from his heart and finally the pleasure or the pain in most cases, oozes out in the form of poetry.
A writer may not have handpicked the flowers for a bouquet to present his beloved but believe me that he spends hell a lot of time to decide each syllable to describe how exactly he feels. He positions them here and there and rereads them a thousand times to make sure that they convey the message crystal clear to you, the one who reads.
Though he never know you, somehow it's you who occupies his mind when he writes something to you. Thus you become a part of his life and he leaves a speck of him in every little thing he writes for you to know him, to know how it is blissful when his life rhymes beautifully, to feel how it hurts when nothing falls into place no matter how hard he tries, to witness the world of his imagination that he has created with such a great passion, to appreciate his peculiar stellate moon when his sky is nothing but black, to sense his loss when his bruised pen bleeds pain, to hear his muffled cries and muted voice when he was suppressed beyond his capacity, to touch him when nobody dared to peek at him, to caress his scars gently when he no longer wants to hide them, to embrace his soul wholeheartedly without discarding his wounded blunders and to read his thoughts as if you are looking straight into his heart.