They say life is like a vow, something that is meant to be broken.
They say death is its predator, but yet life was meant to be its conqueror.
Yet, death is simply a weapon, it's doesn't point its finger picking its next selection.
Obviously creativity fell short upon reaching its peak,
but what I can cleverly see is that the epitome of its genius has not yet deceased.
See the clever thoughts of its speaker, has been crushed upon its dreamer.
Hypothetically speaking, this isn't evolution;
but Leonardo Da Vinci thought that impossible was an illusion.
If nonfiction wasn't real, then maybe we wouldn't have so many addictions to kill.
See diseases are just another deception that were design to pressure us into confession.
The silhouettes of its dressing, steady coating and massing me in its infection.
I call code blue upon my intervention, seeking forgiveness for those out of adolescence.
Their deep interior design was fashionable beyond my time,
yet those with bloodshot eyes were seen dancing in disguised.
He was taped and masked in black.
Flickering of lights, yet sound fades from memory.
The ricocheting of metal, but few has pierced this vessel.
The contingency of time has faded to sand,
yet the grip between my fists has implied my fill.
Looks can be deceiving, but not the face of a killer.
I have played my hand well, yet I've never got to scream bloody murder.
Yet depressed, my breath has been drowned by death.
I wait in agony waiting for my rest, but upon departing I looked above;
only to see an image of a shadow shaking.
Like I said, looks can be deceiving; he was only afraid of my appearance.
The indigence of my appearance has left me bleeding.
How sick can my delusion be, if I'm a genius?
Apparently it must be convenience.