Friday, March 14, 2014

Regret, a poem

It isn't how they said it would be-
regret, that is.
It doesn't eat away at you; an ulcer of pity and wishes.
It doesn't taunt and chide, reminding you that you should have done more, been more.
It doesn't remember yesterday and back when with sorrow or shame.
It doesn't.
It doesn't remember at all. It doesn't look back or rewrite or remember or remind.
It doesn't.
It doesn't move forward or beyond.
No, it's the same yesterday (as it was today.) The same back-talking, teeth-sucking, excuse-making, you that was always there- that will always be there.
There they are. Here.
Hear the same voice. The same fight. The same words making the same arguments, trying to convince the same people.
Trying to change the same minds.

Only now, you're the only one listening.

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