Regrets

I was only seventeen. Hauling frantically

on the back of a matchbook.

I don't think that I could've looked in you in the eye.

So fearful of what I might ignite.

But I kind of hoped you'd stayed.

I was barely home a day, plotting my escape

with a dartboard and a blindfold.

But the dart she landed shy, nearly taking out your eye

as you walked passed the window, singing,

Baby please. Don't you go.

Bound to choices, bound to hopeless solutions

holding terrors unaddressed.

Where's your sense of misdirection?

Left clinging to the shreds of self respect.

Would you do it all again, the same way as the first

set of second chances.

A stronger one might still crumble underneath the weight of doubt

and still decide to run away.

Bound to choices, bound to hopeless solutions

holding terrors unexpressed.

With our worn out resolutions we're caught up

in the web of our regrets