Regrets

Regrets don’t define me,

They have a conscience,

They remind me,

They refine me,

They guide me,

They adjust me,

Redesign me,

They find me,

Walk beside and behind me,

They change me for the better,

They wise me up,

They shake me awake,

They shock me real,

They turn me around,

They make me turn on my heel,

They drop the hints,

They push me forward,

They give me reality checks,

They give me the facts,

Behind the lies,

Behind the eyes,

I’ll never deny them, but,

They’ll fuck me up,

If I repeat them.

Trainspotting

The baggage we arrived with roots us,

We try to walk away, leave it behind,

Yet our wrists are handcuffed to the handles and,

The handles are made of thick solid steel,

The luggage weighs us down to the spot.

 

People on the platform hurry by and never seem to notice,

At least they never stop to ask why we’re standing here,

Not moving,

They’re too busy with their own concerns,

They push past us like we’re invisible, insignificant.

 

We watch the trains come and go, while over the speakers,

We hear destinations listed, platform numbers announced,

We watch the clock change at an alarming rate,

Day turns to night and the platform is a ghost town,

Still, we stand here hunched over our baggage.

 

Seasons change, and still, we’re stood in the self-same position,

Weather beaten, frozen in winter, blue from the cold,

Thawing out in spring, sunburnt in summer,

Collecting the shit of passing birds on our shoulders like statues of long dead heroes,

The only constant here is us.

 

We’re waiting here all this time for the keys to the handcuffs,

To set down our burden once and for all,

To wander free of this open prison of guilt, regret, and worry,

But our keys are in the suitcases we hold,

Locked under a combination code that we can’t crack.

 

We can’t remember how we made it to the platform in the first place,

The luggage is too big too heavy to shift on our own,

Did somebody help us? Can’t recall-

They must have grown tired of carrying our dead-weight,

If they left us here.

 

Why leave us on a platform?

With so many destinations to choose,

So many journeys we can’t make,

To watch other people, get on and off with ease,

Watching trains arrive and trains leave.

 

We never consider the content of the baggage,

Grows heavier the more we put it out of our mind,

Tears well up in our eyes, we ache from the burden of all this stillness,

A child passing on the platform loses hold of a balloon on a string,

All we can do is watch it drift away, weightlessly.

Cracked Paint

Cracks in the paintwork will show,

No matter how many times you gloss over memories,

The rough grain of turbulent thoughts,

Will never be smooth,

You’ll feel the splinters penetrate your skin,

Your nerves raw, as your mind fragile,

No matter how many times you redecorate the room,

You’ll conclude that old woodchip wallpaper will simply have to remain,

Stuck fast to the plaster, beneath the new.

 

Your mistakes, regrets, and resolutions,

Follow you,

All your doing and undoing,

Will undo you,

For better or worse,

Fractures in the sky will appear,

Sunlight will shine in,

Rain will soak you to the bone and,

The cracks in the paintwork will grow,

Like vines of ivy on abandoned buildings.

 

Where nature reclaims her own,

Your character takes on new meaning,

You survive, you thrive,

Through it all,

Some flakes of paint,

May crumble and fall away,

Let them fall,

It’s the cracks in the paintwork,

-That make you.