Simple

-Simple-
by Keaton Foster



Simple
The pimple
On my ass
Oh the terror
It hurts
To sit
To stand
To exist
As is
As I’ve been
Present
Occupiedo
The pain
Greater
Each new day
Suffering
Has become
Commonplace
Pop it I wish
Erasing it I must
Healing the wound
Concealing the scar
All part of the plan
But presently
I can’t reach it
And before you offer
Before you ask
No one can help
Because
No one is here
I’m quite alone
I rub it on rocks
Against trees
On door jams
Across the floor
Every God damn where
On every God damn thing
But it won’t burst
It won’t relent
In fact
The more I do
The more I try
Increasingly inflamed
It becomes
Infected
I’m sure
It must now be
A stew of white
And putrid green
A bulbous blister
Of foreign matter
So disgusting
I can’t see it
I can
Only feel it
To my core
Through
My very bones
In my heart
In my mind
Upon my soul
Festering
Sweltering
Unpleasantness
When
If ever
It does pop
What a mess
It will make
I will become
I won’t know
Understand
What to do
How to act
For all of my days
It’s been back there
Growing
Stewing
Hating me
Infecting my blood
Impurifying my being
Gnawing at these bones
Making me weaker
Than ever before
I don’t remember
I can’t recall
The day it came
Broke my skin
But I can
Without question
Recall
Every day since
Oh God
Does it hurt
The agony
The shame
I can’t sit
Barely
Can I stand
I can’t do anything
Reasonable
Anything recuseable
I must suffer as I do
As I always have
Simple
The pimple
On my ass
Oh the terror
Sheer
All encompassing
It takes up my day
It keeps me awake
Worrying myself
Probably to death
As I live through it
Hoping
Beyond hope
That it will break
Explode everywhere
And everything
What if ever
A glorious mess
That it will be
That I will become
I have come to think
And come to believe
It must be septic
Grossly infected
Maybe even infectious
Poisoning my mind
All that I know
And all that I wish
No one will help me
Because no one is here
I am most alone
In this skin and bones
I have nothing
Not a hope
Nor a dream
All I have is this hurt
And this indignity
Simple
The pimple
On my ass
Is killing me
And when it does
When I die
When I rot away
From the inside
I’m quite sure
It will still be there
Festering even more
Infecting my death
By reminding me
Of the life it took
Even if the life it took
Was a liviable petri dish
Of such disgustingness…


Simple
Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2016/2017.