Sometimes I take a walk and head down to the docks
Look out across the water and think of the time I've lost
Because I'm not a free man, drowning in my self drawn sorrows
No I'm not a free man. I feel like I'm trapped inside a bottle
I drift out to see, with a message in my grasp
I feel the salt water swaying, cooling down the glass
And I'm looking for land
And I'm looking for a hand
So that I can take its grasp and pull myself up out of this glass
But it's not the hand of man that will lead me to salvation
It's the hand of the mighty god that'll get me off this pained vacation
At least that's what I've been told, that I should fit the mold, and when the glass grows cold, it's my soul that's been exposed
The hand of god
It turns me upside down
And it shakes so profound
Drains my contents on the ground
Ringed dry by the wicked prophet with no option to stop it.
My soul grows cold
I struggled with my faith for a long time. I spent years believing that I was the problem. Believing that I wasn't trying hard enough or having faith enough. I felt the sting of rejection again and again until I became numb to the whip. Then, when my eyes were finally free from the haze of grief, I saw the truth. Now I am set free. At least I hope so.
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Should I? Commuting Poetic Injustice
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