Confessional

Frogmarch myself to what I sort of know
can only end in tears for me.
If things are going too well, time to get low,
and laugh if things are going badly.

I’m in two minds as to whether
I’ve got a split personality or not
but it’s just trying to prove a point I’m clever
when it’d be easier to admit I know jack shit.

I must confess I don’t want to own up.
The day I tell myself the truth will be the day I lie.
I want to be a good person and the spirit is willing
but gods don’t talk straight and duck the big why.

Say 10 Hail Marys and 10 Our Fathers.
Keep the faith. Don’t think too much.
Listen to good music.
Try to not lose touch.

Published by aprettykettleofpoetry

John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook. Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic. Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.

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