Informal Curtains
Sometimes we die before our death
Merely existing as shells with our souls six feet
Blossoming roses with pedals that stink of death
Wishing every exhale could our last
God knows we having a blast
Slow dancing to crooked notes that tell stories of whats behind the smile
Our joy is fabricated with rusted steel and a golden platting
Slowly wearing off with every attempt to out shine our solid gold tombstones
I am not alive
But a fetus neck decorated with by the umbilical cord
Feeding me maturity so eventually it could strangle me
Dying of day dreams in my room
Blood stains on a canvas painted with silence
Sirens ushered to a demolished character
Conversations with the emptiness between cages once haunted by a beating existence
Ancient carvings on my skin understood only by souls that once danced with demons tattooed with their heavenly fall
Blades on my wrist trying to revive Pharaohs buried in my fleshy Pyramid killed by reality
I think dead dreams are the best measure of human mortality
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