— a poem of potpourris.

Painful Yet No Remorse

There’s no turning back the clock.

Photo by Anete Lusina from Pexels

I seek a way
to articulate and for you
to comprehend
how the greatest, happiest version
of yours truly
have long been corrupted by
you; both my savior and reaper.

With the scythe as your words,
with both fists as your mouth,
your temper muffled mine
and your sadness labels ‘victim’.

Yet, I will not provide
this thought a voice,
drive,
nor control
over both my being and state.
I will not give it any power
over my name,
nor will I let
it define
why I exist
as you happened to be my choice too.

And I will outgrow these thoughts of you.