What of me?

What happen to
"I will love you for who you are"? or
"I will love you as you are"?
Are those just words?
Meaningless words?
Shall I love against a closed door,
a manikin or a picture of a goddess--
just to be loved in return?
Does that make a reality--
or a mere fantasy?
Is it the matter of life and death--
for myself to have what people call--
perfection; when it is all physical
and it will be gone, anyhow?
Shall I ponder upon all of these tedious
question marks in my burdened head
just to fulfill the desires and dreams
of a clueless and unappreciative air head?
Well then, what of me?
What of the tree of my being
with roots thrust deep into this earth?
I am of what I make myself with rejoice--
shall you, love, doubt and waver challenge
my position and I as a humble human.
What else to be done?
Insecurities kill--
You are killing me.

To Live

What does it take
to make people realize that life is short?
It's temporary.
Do they need a terminal illness
to open their eyes?
To start gripping onto
the little things--
when it's a little too late?
Life is short.
It's temporary.
Death is a promise.
The moment we were born--
we are preparing to die.
Along the way, the purpose of living
is to be searched as if it's buried underground--
like a treasure.
Why bother living when we will end up dead anyway?
God.
Isn't that a reason?
For Him we live and for Him we die.
Is that not enough reason?
Suicide?
There were no realistic moon--
for their stars are dirt.
There are no reason to live but to die.