Categories > Original > Poetry9 Reviews
What's gonna happen to us, years from now?
There's always this one thought, eating away at me, gnawing into my mind like some annoying vermin gnawing at the drywall. I keep thinking about what's gonna happen to us, the writers, the poets, the pure geniuses who penned such great works like Miss Jackson, and A Splitting Of The Mind, even First Of The Gang To Die; I can't stop thinking about the future to our writing, and ouselves.
We're all gonna graduate one day, well, some of us. We'll all walk across that stage, collect up that diploma, and throw our caps off to those who put up with us for four troublesome years. Then the feeling that you've got to start thinking about college and work, and your entire life, sinks in, and it hits you that you're done slacking your way through life, one baby step at a time.
We'll all get married some day, unless you already are. We'll all walk down that aisle, father on our arms, walking up to the same guy who you drooled over in class, the one who made you chuckle, and you actually catch yourself smiling, and it feels great. We'll all say the vows; the promises that binds any marriage together. In sickness and in health. For better or for worst. For richer or for poorer. Those are the promises you have to accept. Once that is over, next is the kiss that seals off the contract.
We'll all have all the measly life crap, like kids, divorce, more marriages, until the final buzzer goes off on life, and our bodies go still, and we die. It haunts me, really. I've planned out my entire life since I was nine years old, yet I haven't started to live it yet. I'm sick of wondering what'll happen to me, or what'll happen to anyone I see. Yet, it still eats away at me. What will happen to us?