Death to all beauty

So who on Earth birthed these minds?
and Mother why,
do all the good ones always die?
 I guess after all this time,
it’s hard to wrap my head around it
but after-all don’t you pick the most beautiful flowers in the garden of different kinds?


Painted with carefully crafted hues
 it’s still perfection even in all its splattered infractions
And I can’t stand the tortured artist,
always cursed with the most unexpected exit
whether a hearse or a padded cell,
 and he who fell is no longer the man who once prevailed,
it’s sad to lose yourself in the absence of glory
but when you no longer need that to explore the path,
you’ve truly found the end of your story

Idle hands destroy creativity
and our idol’s hands leave a piece of themselves for eternity,
while woe is the greatest masterpiece of history
when Death meets the beautiful ones
all fall in line to illustrate
and express it dutifully.

I want to live as if to die was my art.