A longer poem about writing and the methods used to express myself to others. |
-The Pencil In The Drawer- by Keaton Foster In my desk Lonesome Sick Broken at one end Worn at the other An instrument of death A marker of life to extend Whatever I want Weaving words Salvation or demise All just part of the game A dark cave or blue skies A story of love or one of hate Always in between I manage I certainly feel safest When I’m not myself I am without question most dangerous When I’m someone else There is always a naked page Idly waiting by Screaming to be stained Brutal always is the pain Writing is my disease I look forward to dying But for now I’m busy living Expressing, pontificating I do it all On an unreasonable scale Of both scope and endeavor Easily the wickedest of times Permeate from this mind Sure I am capable of truth But I prefer to continually lie To weave intricate webs Of both omission and denial I always let the reader decide What is meant is not so clear What is being said is to the point Like a dagger removed from my spine To the deepest sanctities of their minds Intrusive and abusive A relentless thinker forcing others To think beyond their own nose The pencil in my drawer The words won’t wait Nothingness cannot be a waste Everything has yet to be conveyed I’ll pay every price due for my thoughts I won’t shrug what God has meant He knew what he was doing with me I understand that better than anyone I must weave all human truth With the lies that come from inside I must let everyone out there know Even if they have no desire to Stories and poems are my means A way that I get things done The pencil in the drawer A weapon of brutal choices A means of expressing what others won’t The broken end will become sharp The worn end will be replaced Continual is the case Of what must be done By me and my instrument Of changing things One marked page at a time… The Pencil In The Drawer Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2013 |