My life is on paper, but I am not an open book. I am a Rorschach test of blood stains and paint brush strokes. I demand all respect, but I won't give it up easy. My respect is earned, not given. Wage your own wars, cage your own rage, make your best thoughts jump off the blank page. Tell me what you have to offer, show me what you can do. What makes you talented, show me what you got in your past lives. Let me see what you have contracted inside.|
You can't tell your stories when your 6 ft under, you can't tell people what you've done through the dirt, you can't write your stories down after the coffin lid closes. You are a piece of artwork walking on two legs, now paint a new picture on this canvas, before your mind becomes rotted in ruin and collapses upon the pictures your holding. Write this story your holding inside, paint this picture no one else can see, what are you leaving here when you leave? Tell us that.
Show me what you have inside.
My coffins lid is far from closing.
But some of ours aren't.
Tell us, before we're all dead.