Gripes are supposed to go up, not down, so why do people get low, why do people get high, strangely enough, I was neither writing this, angels aren’t real right but people have airplanes. High Off Confession, would I really need a priest for this one
What goes good with confession?
Perhaps a side of God?
If my words could reach so high…
But would I rather keep my secrets,
to make my regrets the sod
with so many tear stained letters
that I ask, can you stop the rain
cause I’m leaving on a jet plane?
Only you’re the jet setter
A new profession;
and with my warmest regards
However, may I say it clearly?
Louder as my heart breaks apart
can you, will you, will she?
when she pressed delete
That’s my prerogative but her discretion
Not the wind, the speed, the sky’s color or hue
even the air to breathe
someone get me a priest
for if I am to drown on a word or two
To live loud, slamming doors,
fist, the beating of my heart
Maybe a confession is not so smart
selfless, brave, honest or kind, anymore,
better my impression
of the sound of silence
Regain the spirit of the caveman
wondering not how any man
learned to fly, speak, or become giants
Yes, my regression
Because with my confession
would come another transgression
Copyright © 2017, Will A. Bradford Jr. All rights reserved.