What in whoever-the-hell's-up-there name am I doing? Who am I to question history? Follow the lines of this directed system, Make yourself appear kind and gentle enough To be accepted into afterlives put forth by humans Who waste their here-lives mauling over what if's- What if they're right? But whoever the hell I have to **** up to, God, what if they're wrong? Do I risk my spot among the great In order to live the life I want to while I still know it's real? I cannot question the tangibility of this world because the key word here- Tangible- tangible, I can feel you, I can feel the grass And I can feel these people and because you are real I am not alone. I cannot depend on something that isn't tactile, that isn't tangible Because I cannot touch what I don't know I cannot touch what can be speculated as unreal. But who am I to judge what is real and unreal? If there is nothing unreal to depend on, no god or supreme beings, No something that is controlling my very being, Then why do I chew on the idea that it could be real? Tell me, what constitutes something real?