No ratings.
A cryptic poem about a made up person, places, and often reality. |
Once by Keaton Foster Once I dated This girl She was Of course The world She had No head No arms Nor legs She was Motionless Obtuse Morose Just gross Putrid Diseased Plant able Said seed To be buried Quite deep Would she grow Unknown But that alone Is the beauty And tragedy Of every idea Will they bloom Or will the die Inside we know Outside we won’t But as things go We do it anyway Logic is lost Surreal such reason We stand for And by What we wish What we believe No matter the cost Regardless of price Once I knew the truth Beyond every lie I understood Who she was And why she was Her name Pointless Her identity Irrelevant Where is she from Where did she go Nowhere Is the only Apropos answer Is she alive Or is she dead Does she Or did she Ever even exist To that point Ill further express Existence Very much worthless And the promise Of meaning Is a prison In which we all Find ourselves living Except for her of course Life had and has Other meanings Once Let me be blunt You have no idea Not a damn clue As to whom Or which I speak This A lesson of sorts A simple stroll Through a wilderness Of absolute truths I did not kill her She was not dead Because she herself Was never real A made up being A remedy For my sickness A blustering Megalomaniacal Preponderance Of “As If’s” Turned on its head Kicked in the teeth Bleeding ideas As if they are When in fact They are not Once Not a real place Point or time But rather an idea An ever-evolving grievance Of indifference… Once Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2008-2019 |