18+I always imagine that when I die, I'll be stuck in a box in the ground, doing my time. |
-What It Outta Be- by Keaton Foster What it outta be Weird This may seem Such intentions Will I free Because you’ll see That time Is nothing Most presently Consequentially Here A tree Does dream Here A rock Does move And here Dirt Does spiral loose The world spins Needless of sound Nothing so profound Axial semantics Leading further To polluted nuances All of it Everything A nonentity Existing down here There are clouds Mini wind storms Lightning bolts A tenth of the size Of what’s norm And here No one is going to die There are no killers In this lifeless place So unkind For those here The deceased There is just silence A muted paradise Full of transients Stuck waiting In this way ward station And yes, one word One proclamation Not two What it outta be Then again Maybe it’s not The living can’t know Because they Are too busy dying They can’t be bothered Residence is between God so far above And those eight feet down In the darkest of hole I am just one Of infinitesimally more How many exactly Just go to any cemetery Pick up a rock And throw it You’ll hit someone So denied life Back when I myself Was quite alive I refused any form of God And made it my life’s work To make others question What they took on faith If freewill is a bitch Then I am One of its children A putrid offspring Here rotting for my choices And the bothersome ways In which I made them I got what I deserved Or so it would seem What it outta be Is indeed very clear At least to me In this place Of willingly made Important decisions Truly Many do indeed belong Willy-nilly I took What was organized And laid it out bare I poked it with sticks Then I kicked it When it was down I circled back around Calling it horrid names Casting vigorous aspersions To any and all That would listen Those perilous few Are probably here Somewhere near In death just as I Paying for what I’ve done And what has yet to come The amount is epic The fee is staggering Who knew that salvation Could be part of A much greater equation Adding up To the sum of lives And at least for me Our demise What it outta be Seems right here God knows my sincerity And if he don’t What am I Going do about it Nothing I’ve made my bed Written of my ends And Now I’m here Freewill It does seem Is not so clear Choices Not present Just death And my once supple flesh Rotting away Decaying as my soul Stays pristine Within the confines Of my present home What it outta be Is what it seems… What It Outta Be Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2014. |