Regret.
A feeling of sadness; grief over repentance.
A failure of ideal and the steady trickle of piling remorse that follows.
Is it not enough, never enough,
The feeling that assails me,
The everlasting frailty,
Of my sense of self?
To have my shame served on a silver platter,
Would this feeling truly matter,
If I were to not care about it at all?
But to be able to unfetter myself of this feeling,
To start the gradual healing,
Of my fracturing self?
Or is this dream of mine sat upon a higher shelf,
Unable to grasp the thought I truly desire?
The further I grow the deeper the roots of doubt splay within my soul.
To have such freedom, would it truly be such a sin,
To live life without the eternal shroud of the past obscuring my future?
Or should such a wound be sewn up with suture,
A growing force held deep only to fester.
To grasp myself in fervent embrace,
Study myself, focus to face,
To analyse my faults and to discuss my past,
Has such a moment truly not passed?
To live and die by the act of compression,
An emotional recession,
Held together by my strings that bind and hold,
Both my body and soul.
To stare at the effervescent and bright,
To steel both my emotion and sight,
To become strong in the face of my simple adversity,
Such a puppet of my own to set myself free.