I'm tired of the past,
the decisions I made,
tenfold I've expressed
displeasure of every action,
but every fraction of pleading
is never enough to rid
minds of tattered bedsheets,
or the hues that make up
the painting I've been
trying to erase,
but these colours dont run,
and there's ink coloured umbrage
in these veins and it flows
at piqued destinations,
sitting behind eyes
that see to well,
today, I know will
eventually become the past,
but I've been trying to
drag the pigment
of yesterday into something
tomorrow won't look back on,
and tow a sodden eraser
over wet ink,
I can promise that
I've changed and
no where in the book
written by regret
does it say
that anyone will believe me,
and I'm beginning
to accept that,
everyday I have to stare
at intangible scars left
by blades tipped
with foretimes
and the ringing of
these wind chimes are becoming
white and I'm getting tired,
it's putting me to sleep
and I've given up on
counting sheep because
the breeze of attempting to
forget my past is soothing enough,
these colours dont run,
and I wonder if tomorrow
I'll wake up in colorant sheets.