wasted time,
whenever I spend an ounce,  
of myself—lesser than a dime,
my time, lesser than a hand count,

of myself with you,
a wasted time indeed,
and these regrets bleed,
lifelessly—out and about,

endlessly, these regrets,
will always lash out unto me,
unto me, they send threats,
my regrets begged to be set free,

Pain is not you leaving but me leaving me.

i wish i can flow out my emotions
and have a taste of it
maybe with a bourbon glass
anything, without complications

just to see if it hints bitterness
a glint of sadness
see if it dances with joy
i hope not for sorrow

mundane aims blandness
and i dont know anymore
seems like i cant feel anything
are they bottled like Jim Beam?