They tell me to hurry up
from since I was tied
to a grasshopper, but they insist.

Only I have been hushed
for so long, I don’t know if inside
it’s impossible, immoral, illegal, insane, a wish

As my poor heart was crushed,
But nowhere to run to baby, nowhere to hide
and I’m stuck with this

Just a word too much;
suicide it’s a suicide
waiting to blow, waiting for Miss?

What’s her name, what’s mine, in the mush
being melted damn near fried
by how many candles, day one ish

A touch of love, of death, or a girl at the sagebrush
Yet I am preoccupied
blowing out this yearly dish
One more sugar rush

Copyright © 2017, Will A. Bradford Jr. All rights reserved.