Eight Ball God

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
Because 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
And 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
And 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 in 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 these 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, for something I just can't see, I can't see, something I can't see, I can't see, 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