What if I took you to a secret place,
And pressed my hand against your face?
Would you pull away,
Or take a moment to stay?
Perhaps hearing what I have to say is a chore.
All lofty dreams sailing high in clouds of foam
Yet my clouds turn to gray. Thunder roaring in the gloam,
The horizon covered in their deafening roar.
Maybe this is a bit too cynical,
Though that is quite typical,
Like finding a robin in the grass,
Or calling a friend a pain in the ass.
Perhaps you are right, I should try to see
A more positive outlook in front of me…
