Regrets

Praying God for your soul to keep
praying for anything, to do anything
but all my words that I hoped would mean
something fall from my lips like these
tears that spill from her eyes, all of the
sadness, all the joy, all the badness
I forget, I will not be there with her in sleep.

I know that you have a little time left
I want you to have some peace in your rest
I don't want to be here alone, bereft
I tried my very best, like it was all
like some pitiless contest.

I should be crying,
but I just can't let the despair grow
I should be thankful
but the fear and worry won't let go.

All this things that I should have told you
all the times I should have stopped just to hold
you, all the apologies and all of these regrets
I can't help but feel that it would have been
better for you that we had never met.

Give me, just another moment with you
in the sun, give those memories back
to me. Just give me one more second
to enjoy that last kiss, all of the times
I thought I would never have to miss,

I should be crying,
but I can't get the anger to slow
I should be coping
but the anger is beginning to show.

All the words that I should have said
all the promises I made but never did
all the trust that you had me in me
all the things you needed me to do
all of these things that we once held true
now that death has come for it due
I have nothing left, if I don't even have you.

Original credit to form:

Kate Bush: This Woman's Work

(song almost always makes me cry)

 

A Writer looks at 40 and a few years.

It was bound to happen eventually, frankly I almost missed
the reference until I thought that Buffett would sing about
the changes in latitudes and I would remember the sea.
What did it mean to me? What did it mean to me?
It's like I have cast my lot once again like a line
thrown out over the waves to drop down into the
deeps where all the secrets I had hope to hide
float among the remains of the mysteries that I
want to keep. In my sleep. In my sleep.
Mother mother Ocean, I had heard you call
in the dulcet rhymes of the ancient mariner's
yarn about fate and the fool hardiness of it all.
The words of the whale song ring through the
lines that I would want to write down with my
shaking pen in hand. Will have to give into this
demand, will have to live with this demand.
Father father sky, I still can hear you out in the
great wide open, in the eagle's cry. I should keep
dreaming that I can fly, should give it one more try.
Watched the authors who told your stories switch from
pages to the LCD screens, forgetting the ink, broke a few
pencils, leaving their mark upon my psyche with a
electronic digits, nothing in between. Most of them
green, most of them green.
Yes, I am a writer, a wordsmith scoundrel, my stories
well in hand, hoping for a voice to be heard out
across this land, The years have made me what I never
thought to become, when the language would fail me,
the plans I made grow stale, unrelentingly unrealized
all that I had hope to gain, but still I see doubt in the
mirror of my plots as if I can see into my own sad eyes.
Nothing left but to despise, I am, in fact, a master of lies.