Death Is An Imaginative Being

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.