Oh, why do I provoke such grief and print it out for all to read.

I’ve come back to revisit this unhappy day.

But there’s no need to delve

in what’s over

what’s past.

Let it go,

it’s old,

old pain

only half remembered.

For so long I’ve kept things covered

the shocks still shaking

shaping my foundations

But private,

Creating this daft need to express stories.

Burning lives

kept a firm safe distance from anything that may flame or spark something real from within.

The truth.

A truth.

My truth.

What truth?

Can I say anything is true?

What happened is simply lost –

memories,

scolded internal wounds.

Reinventing images,

indulged self-expression,

being clever,

holding words out to groom,

yet never truly hitting

on what happened.

Could I ever be truly honest

do it justice.

Will I be fair to those others who involuntary play roles in my tale?

How they responded

Subjective.

My feelings placed on them,

merged into my amateur psychology.

from this tale,

There’s those left dead

They were alive until our paths joined.

Who am I to take ownership and express their human time?

My writings for me

To makes it logic

Only memory,

my memories,

growing,

diminished,

I carry my guilt alone,

the real events are simply left,

lost in time,

Yet exposed again

In raw tearful regret

naked at the tip of my tongue.