If I were a poet I would know the perfect word to describe how it feels the moment I open my eyes and realize it was but a fleeting dream I don't even remember what you look like in this physical world only a blurred image residing in REM
If I were a poet I could print the whispers and wonders and describe with diction The raging burning battle with my conscience that created such bruising and anger and irritation
the scars those thoughts have left me They rise with each moment of intimacy even after forgiveness has been mouthed over and over and over again
If I were a poet I'd have the most beautiful acceptable apology
But alas I am no poet or pious princess
Nothing ceases It's always there reminding me a personal private world of pain
Shame I beg you Die with all of last years deciet do not follow me.