For death\'s soul has hidden its head
Please bury me in the sand
I paint my life as a portrait to my ego
No one has the answers, no one has this life
For our bodies are just an illusion
I beg you, please, do not hate the messenger
For it is not the messenger\'s fault
That life is so messed up
And behold, I think to myself--
How does it feel to suffer in a glass house
With drama and chaos?
And behold, I think to myself--
How does it feel to see pictures
With no walls?
The answers to these questions shall be blank
For death dances at heaven\'s door
Hoping to be pure;
This insufferable situation
Brings out the chaotic roses,
For winning is awesome when you\'re dead--
One cannot mess up
For it is impossible to win
In this life,
Unless you\'re dead...
Truth, truth; Ruth, Ruth
Who is Ruth when she is dead?
For the houses never cease to amaze me
For I am in nirvana,
And I am Ruth
Oh heaven fear me now; For I am Ruth
And the truth becomes wicked in solemn nights
For a fragile rose needs repair
It lies naked in a man\'s dream
With a prominent state of mind
And poetry fills the rage of death,
For poetry is death; be prepared to die
Because words are the love language of the soul
And in my death I speak--
What color are illusions
In the back of the mind?
What aging celsius relies?
Because love is death
Across the board...
Shall I write on the board how I feel?
For the death of my words are prominent
For I have tasted death
And I still want more
And the benefit comes from being me
For being me is damaging--
And death wears a dress
That nobody wants to wear,
But at least she has good taste.