Some poems are beyond foundation, beyond good taste and marketability,Some are just poison |
-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. |