I tried to write my thoughts. Poems.

Life?

The boys they don't seem to arrive too easy,

no one wants a girl immersed in poetry.

And though my parents have their own conclusion,

it seems that life is a mere vision given only, a name.

I hear the paintings,

they are all  singing.

they bellow sonnets low, and sweet.

And while I can feel the birds a-tweeting,

this house reveals its troubles--obese.

Nine out of ten times, quite frankly,

it's actually Hell and not just heat.

Though all this art appeared to be restless,

My brother commented on its simplicity.

Interpretation is found in the minds hallucinogens,

Not upon merely,

your ability,

to suck in oxygen.

And if our imagination is all a lie,

At least we have imagined a world that the day you stop dreaming is the day that you die.