A time capsule casket closed containing all the words I ever spoke
and I wonder if anyone would care enough to dig it up in ten years.
It's weird to think about: everything pure will eventually be relevant even if the artist isn't here for it.
You could die as a failure, but future figure because whatever current culture couldn't comprehend it.
It's a poet's curse.
and it only gets worse.
They're only open to your words A.D. like a convertible hearse.
The most underground artist – the one that is buried in this dirt – has always felt buried under the pressure of the world.
We're all in debt to serve good deeds.
We're all in debt financially.
We're in the depths of being destined to die, but we're born to live so we live to leave
because we'd rather be elsewhere.
Fuck it.
I'd rather be someone else and I'll leave my environment before I let it define myself.
I take the landscape-goat that forever defines my fate.
The freeway leads to the grave.
It's all down hell from here, unless we're road kill on the way.
I chase my dreams because my nightmares chase me and the terror of being forgotten is haunting.
Often times, I'm left wandering- wondering if the world will ever know?
Will I not get a chance or make no change like putting a ghost on death row?
I prayed to the eight ball god and all I got was "try again later,"
but I don't think I will because I fear the word "no" more than my deathbed.
I don't like the odds of the future in this being pretend, because they're not in my favor
like five in the chamber to my head playing reverse Russian roulette.
But what else do I have but to make something shovel worthy?
I'm working on zombie words in case the casket comes early.
They say nothing worth having comes this easy, but having nothing's been the hardest thing to happen to me.
And it's not about the money; it's about the dream.
But how bleak the world seems when they're both out of reach and I'm still reaping the shadows
a future bound for the gallows.
I use to spotlight to pause life and just see the momentary clarity that is me:
the confessions of the godless.
Finding more guidance in a magic eight ball of responses that uses the same illogic
of asking questions we don't want answers to.
Praying for things we don't need.
Planning for a tomorrow even though there's no guarantee but we still sing,
Here's to hoping
Here's to coping.
Here's to dying on your knees.
Here's to losing everyone and everything because you cut off your own feet.
Here's to shoving religion down my throat hoping that I choke
but I won't because I can't live or die for something I can't see.
The sunrise with my eyes I can see today, I can see me.
And those are the only things that I'll ever believe, because tomorrow I'll feel like a death row ghost again with no role in modern civilization, because making memories is making cemeteries out of us.
Because if we're underground long enough, then we're dead.
