I write this as I am dripping blood down the hallway
The stream is flowing from chalk white wrists
Above which is my hand -an artistsâ?? hand
The hand that is recording my death
Death. It is a funny word.
In death I am finding peaceâ?¦serenityâ?¦comfort
None of these I found in life
So I ask youâ?¦is not death lifeâ?¦and life death?
And if this is the case, when we are bornâ?¦are we not really dying?
And in deathâ?¦are we not being born?
Ponder this my friend, because you have your whole life, or really death, to do so
But theseâ?¦ these are my last words, to be set into stone
To echo inside your heart for an hour, a day, a yearâ?¦
I find myself on a bed now on which I have created a masterpiece
It is a vision of red, on which I am being bornâ?¦
And in this vision of red is my final workâ?¦this is my beautiful death
And I call it life
--well this isnt my poem but it is my sisters and she doesnt have an account so she asked me to put it on here. Plz comment and rate
