Regret

Tell me feelings are,

Made of lumps in my throat.

Made of an uneasiness that springs around my heart,

When you go on,

Unstoppable,

On about what I do,

How I hurt you,

How I never listen,

And all of this in a spiteful breakdown.

On about what I think,

And everything I have ever chosen when I could.

Why should I speak at all,

Everything I say will be used against me;

so I don’t.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s