In the Style of a Tight Rope Walker

you took my hand from the smoking gun
and held me like a son
in light of all i said i’d do
you placed me in a cell
i’d do the same if i were you
honest as a priest
i held my face up to the sky
in the style of a tight rope walker
i spread my arms and tried to glide
in honour of a failed semester
i picked my life up piece by piece
in the style of an awful metaphor
i took a step to silence you
what else could you possibly do?
i held my face up to the sky
i practiced all my silly lies