this blood on my hands is something i cannot fo...

About this user

Falling Down, pooling up,
Out of the sky, into my cup.

What is this wet that comes from above,
That some call disaster, and others find love.

The harder it falls, the less it is nice,
The colder it falls the harder the ice.

The rain has an art that I may not get,
So I stand still here and get soaking wet.
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We think a flower on a cliff is beautiful
because we stop to our feet at the cliff's edge,
Unable to step out into the sky
like that fearless flower.
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We are all born dead. The end exists before anything begins. If living is a constant quest for awareness, the awareness we gain at the end is a real goal. In other words, death. Is the discovery and complete understanding of the end. We are not permitted to seek awareness, those that cannot transend death will not find awareness in anything.