What is the point of heaven
What is the point of hell
Heaven is the land of dreams
Hell is the land of screams

Now what is this reality
A place we can call living?
A place that everyday we stand for dreams and screams
Just to realize in the end it doesn't matter

As far as we can tell we fear the tomorrow we want it or not
For it does hold an unseen future for an seen past
That is the point of living, taking chances
Every day giving you a fortune cookie of live or death

What about hell
What about heaven
Everyday is the same in every countless division
No matter what you do you know your future's granted
Always know what's right behind you,
Always know your fate is sealed,
Everyday is a leisure or a seizure, does it matter?
When you realize everyday will be the same
What is the point of caring whether you want to end up in
Heaven or hell, a repeated senseless life in regulated borders
When reality is the place to care for with a wheel of fortune standing upon you everyday

You may not realize
But I am more then silence
I'm strong, independent, loud, scared
I am more then shy
Through your eyes you see who you want me to be
Through others they see the real me
I wish you could understand
That I'm not under your upper hand
I have my own life
But this is what you don't realize

on your first moment of being alive
you’ll wonder why god’s in the sky
and how the ***** of your soul
can’t grab hold of the air
to steer you to die
and on your last day you’ll attest
that the plane in your chest
can take the air from your crumpling house
and fly you to god’s bed in the clouds
the clouds will spray and dazzle
with lightning purely designed to unravel
all the twine lashed around your heart
that keeps it form flying out into the dark
of some columbonimbus forest
where the pine trees are black
and you’re only a tourist
through the trillions of droplets of static
don’t panic
you won’t become static
if your being is healthy and your course erratic
through the eclectic college of higher thought
and liar’s losses where
what you said you’d ever do
is who you are and it is you
flowing through your floating soul
far away from your crumpling home
and what you said you’d never do
is who you are and it is you
and it’s flowing through your dying blood
tainted brown with air and mud
and who you are is how you fly with
wings of soul and ***** of lung
piloted by how you die
with tar and drink and merrier things
than you’ve ever known in a crumpling home
because flight is happy and death is euphoric
and falling is a trap sprung by calling for nothing
but concern and disdain will slash at your face
like raindrops cushioning a pilotless plane

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,--
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,--
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.